•  y/yjs ////•// //-' 


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SERMONS  OUT  OF  CHURCH. 


SERMONS  OUT  OF  CHURCH. 


BY  THE  AUTHOR  OP 


"JOHN  HALIFAX,  GENTLEMAN,"  &c 

L--    >  °^*" 

"  Thy  will  be  done  on  earth  as  it  is  in  heaven." 


NEW    YORK: 

HARPER   &   BROTHERS,   PUBLISHERS, 

FRANKLIN     SQUARE. 
1875. 


BY  THE  AUTHOR  OF  "JOHN  HALIFAX." 


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c 


CONTENTS. 


SERMON  PACK 

I.  WHAT  is  SELF-SACRIFICE  ? 9 

II.  OUR  OFTEN  INFIRMITIES 41 

III.  How  TO  TRAIN  UP  A  PARENT   IN   THE   WAY 

HE    SHOULD    GO 75 

IY.  BENEVOLENCE  —  OR  BENEFICENCE  ?     .     .     .     .117 

Y.  MY  BROTHER'S  KEEPER 145 

YI.  GATHER  UP  THE  FRAGMENTS 177 


Sermon  JL 
WHAT   IS   SELF-SACRIFICE? 


I. 

WHAT  IS  SELF-SACRIFICE? 

T  LATELY  saw  a  drawing,  not  unknown  to  archseolo- 
-•-  gists,  which,  though  it  might  shock  some  people  as 
painfully  profane,  struck  me  with  just  the  contrary  feel- 
ing, as  being  a  solemn  and  touching  confirmation,  from 
the  outside,  of  that  internal  truth  which  we  call  Eevela- 
tion.  It  was  a  copy  of  a  street  caricature,  found,  not 
very  long  ago,  on  a  newly  discovered  wall — I  think  in 
Rome — where  it  had  been  hidden  for  eighteen  hundred 
years.  Evidently  the  work  of  some  JToung  gamin  of 
the  ancient  world,  and  depicting  a  man,  after  the  most 
primitive  style  of  Art,  with  a  round  O  for  his  head,  an 
oblong  0  for  his  body,  two  lines  for  legs  and  arms,  and 
five-rayed  fans  for  hands  and  feet.  This  creature  stood 
gazing  in  adoration  upon  a  similar  man,  only  with  an 
ass's  head  instead  of  a  human  one,  who  hung  suspended 
upon  a  cross.  Underneath  was  scrawled  in  rude  Greek 
letters,  "Alexaminos  worships  his  God? 

It  set  me  thinking.     "Alexaminos  worships  his  god." 
Not  God,  mind  you,  but  his  god :  the  divinity  of  his 

A2 


10  WHAT   IS    SELF-SACRIFICE? 

own  making,  with  an  ass's  head  on.  How  many  excel- 
lent and  earnest-minded  people  do  much  the  same ! 

To  pull  the  ass's  head  off — to  show  how  many  a  ri- 
diculous idol  is  esteemed  divine  ;  how  often  a  so-called 
virtue  is  in  reality  a  vice,  or  slowly  corrupting  into  one ; 
how  the  sublimest  and  holiest  truths  may  be  travestied 
into  actual  lies — this  is  the  aim  of  my  Sermons  out  of 
Church.  Out  of  Church  :  outside  each  and  all  of  those 
numerous  and  endlessly  diversified  creeds  preached  in 
buildings  made  with  hands  ;  but  not,  I  hope,  outside  of 
that  universal  Church — God's  consecrated  Temple  — 
built  without  hands,  "  eternal  in  the  heavens." 

Is  this  iconoclasm  ?  I  can  not  think  so.  Is  it  irre- 
ligious ?  Surely  not  to  those  who  believe  that  the 
heart  of  all  religion  lies  in  the  words  I  have  put  on  my 
title-page, "  Thy  will  be  done  on  earth  as  it  is  in  heav- 
en." But  to  find  out  what  that  will  is,  and — so  far  as 
the  finite  may  comprehend  the  infinite — Him  who  de- 
clares it,  this,  and  this  alone,  is  real  Christianity. 

Let  me  begin  "at  the  very  beginning,"  as  children 
say — children,  in  their  holy  ignorance,  often  so  much 
wiser  and  nearer  heaven  than  we. 

In  first  planning  this  first  sermon,  I  entitled  it  "  The 
Sin  of  Self -sacrifice ;"  because  I  have  noticed,  as  one  of 
the  sad  and  strange  things  in  life,  what  folly,  what  mis- 
ery, what  actual  wickedness,  result  from  the  exaggera- 
tion of  this  particular  virtue,  esteemed  the  highest  of 


WHAT   IS   SELF  *  SACRIFICE  ?  11 

all,  the  very  key-stone  and  crown  of  our  faith.  But 
considering  the  point,  and  feeling  that  such  a  title 
might  startle  weaker  brethren,  and  give  an  impression 
that  I  meant  what  I  do  not  mean,  and  that  my  Sermons 
out  of  Church  are  also  out  of  the  pale  of  all  Christiani- 
ty, I  have  abstained,  and  simply  commence  with  the 
open  question,  What  is  self-sacrifice  ? 

The  most  obvious  answer  is  this :  Self-sacrifice  means 
the  sacrifice  of  one's  self,  one's  personal  ego,  with  its 
aims  and  desires,  to  something  or  somebody  else.  Then, 
in  this  transaction,  is  the  most  important  element  the 
self  which  is  sacrificed,  or  the  object  which  it  is  sacri- 
ficed to  ?  In  other  words,  granted  that  self-sacrifice  is 
a  good  thing,  which  side  is  to  reap  the  good  ?  Or  is 
there  to  be  a  third  consideration,  more  important  than 
either — its  end  and  aim?  And  what  is  its  end  and  aim? 

A  moralist  might  answer,  "  Absolute  truth,  absolute 
right."  A  Christian,  knowing  how  difficult  it  is  to  de- 
fine either,  might  reply,  "  God  ;"  which  involves  three 
necessities — the  comprehension  of  Him,  the  worship  of 
Him,  and  the  duty  and  delight  of  obeying  Him.  Brief- 
ly, God  and  His  will,  so  far  as  we  know  it,  must  be  the 
only  right  end  of  self-sacrifice. 

Then,  what  is  its  beginning?  the  passion  from  which 
it  takes  its  rise  ?  Usually,  nay,  universally,  that  passion 
which  is  the  heart  of  the  universe — love.  The  root  of 
all  true  self-sacrifice  is  some  strong  affection  which 


12  WHAT   IS   SELF  -  SACRIFICE  ? 

makes  the  welfare  of  the  beloved  of  more  importance 
to  us  than  our  own,  or  an  equally  strong  devotion  to  a 
principle,  which  is  merely  an  abstract  form  of  the  same 
emotion.  Both  these  motives  are  noble — and  ignoble 
likewise,  sometimes ;  for  the  latter  is  often  alloyed  by 
ambition,  egotism,  obstinacy,  love  of  power ;  while  the 
former  is  seldom  free  from  that  recondite  but  very  com- 
mon selfishness,  the  hope  of  having  our  self-sacrifice  duly 
appreciated.  Yery  few  of  the  most  devoted  of  our  lov- 
ers and  friends  would  come  up  to  the  standard  I  once 
heard  given  of  true  affection :  "  He  might  die  for  you, 
but  he  would  never  let  you  know  it." 

Now  most  of  your  self-sacrificers  take  abundant  pains 
to  let  you  know  it.  When  they  offer  themselves  up,  it 
is  with  a  lurking  hope  that  not  only  the  object  of  so 
much  devotion,  but  a  select  circle  of  sympathizing  ad- 
mirers, may  be  present  at  their  immolation.  The  heroic 
self-control  which  "dies  and  makes  no  sign"  is  a  virtue 
of  which  very  few  are  capable.  As  I  once  heard  com- 
mented by  a  small  but  sage  commentator  on  the  poem 
of  "  Enoch  Arden :"  "  Yes,  it  was  very  good  of  Enoch 
not  to  tell  his  story  until  he  died ;  but,  mamma,  what 
a  pity  he  didn't  die  and  say  nothing  at  all!" 

There  is  another  view  of  martyrdom  which  deserves 
a  word.  It  may  be  a  very  grand  thing,  despite  its 
pains,  for  the  martyr,  who  has  made  his  choice,  accept- 
ed his  fate,  and  is  prepared  to  go  up  in  a  cloud  of  glory 


WHAT   IS   SELF  -  SACRIFICE  ?  13 

to  heaven ;  not  unconscious,  perhaps,  of  the  eyes  that 
will  be  following  him  thither.  But  what  of  those  who 
have  permitted  or  exacted  the  sacrifice  ?  And  suppose 
it  has  been  offered  foolishly,  needlessly ;  perhaps  even 
in  some  bitter  outburst  of  feeling  not  quite  so  holy  as 
the  act  appears  ?  Before  we  lay  ourselves  down  before 
Juggernaut,  is  it  not  as  well  to  see  if  he  is  a  god,  or 
only  an  ugly  idol  ?  And  in  preparing  our  suttee,  should 
we  not  pause  to  consider  how  far  we  are  really  benefit- 
ing the  affectionate  friends  who  come  to  assist  thereat  ? 
Possibly  the  role  of  victim  which  we  are  so  anxious  to 
play  may  affix  upon  some  one  else  the  corresponding 
title  of  murderer. 

He  who  causes  his  brother  to  err  is  himself  a  sinner. 
Now  do  you  see  what  I  mean  by  the  sin  of  self-sacri- 
fice? 

A  sin  to  which  I  fear  women  are  much  more  prone 
than  men.  It  is  apparently  a  law  of  the  universe  that 
the  male  animal  should  be  always  more  or  less  a  selfish 
animal.  No  doubt  there  is  some  reason  in  this — some 
good  reason ;  indeed,  we  can  almost  trace  that.  A  large 
ego  is  oftentimes  necessary  to  enable  a  man  to  hold  his 
own  in  the  hard  battle  of  life,  and  the  creed  of  "  self- 
preservation  is  the  first  law  of  nature,"  which  presents 
itself  so  forcibly  to  the  mind  of  the  ordinary  man,  in  all 
phases  of  society,  from  the  savage  to  the  sybarite,  may 
contribute  a  good  deal  to  the  advantage  of  the  species. 


14  WHAT   IS    SELF  -  SACRIFICE  ? 

Be  that  as  it  may  be,  I  am  afraid  it  must  be  owned  that, 
with  some  noble  exceptions,  men  are,  as  a  rule,  ignobly 
and  incurably  selfish.  But  it  remains  to  be  proved  how 
far  they  are  so  in  themselves,  or  how  far  it  is  the  women's 
fault,  who,  by  this  exaggeration  of  unselfishness,  this  sin- 
ful self-sacrifice,  help  to  make  them  what  they  are. 

Despite  all  the  fancies  of  lovers  and  poets,  throughout 
life,  women  are  the  offenders,  and  men  the  accepters,  of 
an  amount  of  devotion  which  would  ruin  an  angel.  They 
are  the  slaves  who  manufacture  the  tyrants. 

Yet  how  sweet  and  charming  it  is  to  be  a  slave — at 
first.  To  a  loving-hearted  woman  for  love's  sake,  to  a 
weak  one  because  it  saves  trouble,  lightens  responsibil- 
ity, and  flatters  that  self-conscious  vanity  which,  if  we 
tear  off  its  saintly  robes,  underlies  so  much  devotion, 
amatory  as  well  as  religious,  female  devotion  especially. 

"He  for  God  only — she  for  God  in  him." 

So  wrote  Milton,  and  few  men  ever  wrote  a  more  false 
or  dangerous  line.  Why — though  it  may  be  less  flatter- 
ing to  the  man,  less  easy  for  the  woman — why  should 
not  she  as  well  as  he  live  "  for  God  only  ?"  Why — in- 
stead of  seeing  no  medium  between  blind  idolatry  or 
childish  subserviency,  and  a  frantic  struggle  after  im- 
possible "rights" — should  she  not  accept  calmly  her 
plain  duty,  to  be  man's  helpmeet,  and  assist  him  in 
doing  his  duty  before  the  world  and  before  God? 


WHAT   IS   SELF  -  SACEIFICE  ?  15 

Instead,  how  many  knowingly,  or  unknowingly,  do 
their  very  utmost  not  to  amend,  but  to  destroy  the  ob- 
jects of  their  love  ?  For  women  will  love  men,  and  all 
the  philosophers  in  petticoats,  or  less  graceful  habili- 
ments, who  aim  at  remodeling  society,  free  from  the 
old-fashioned  folly  of  wifehood  and  motherhood,  will 
never  succeed  in  conquering  this  amiable  weakness. 
It  is  all  very  well  to  pretend  that  women  are  the  adored 
and  men  the  adorers — so  they  are  for  a  year  or  two, 
and  toward  one  or  two  women  ;  but  at  the  beginning 
and  end  of  life,  and  all  through  it,  save  during  the  brief 
courtship  time,  it  is  the  business  of  their  womenkind — 
mothers,  sisters,  wives,  daughters — to  worship  them,  to 
serve  them,  to  obey  them.  Every  man  in  his  secret 
heart  recognizes  this  fact,  and  is  complacently  satisfied 
that  it  should  remain  a  fact  forever. 

Well,  let  it  be  so!  Perhaps  the  "Whole  Duty  of 
Woman "  is  man ;  but  it  is  in  order  that  she  may  be 
the  agent  for  making  him  into  a  real  man,  fulfilling  all 
the  noble  aims  of  manhood. 

Gay,  in  his  "Acis  and  Galatea,"  has  one  fine  line- 
finer,  perhaps,  than  he  meant  it  to  be.  The  nymph, 
changing  her  dead  shepherd  into  a  fountain,  says, 

"Be  thou  immortal,  since  them  art  not  mine." 

And  any  woman  who  ever  truly  loved  a  man  would  de- 
sire to  make  him  so — not  "  hers,"  perhaps,  but  "  immor- 


16  WHAT   IS    SELF -SACRIFICE? 

tal ;"  that  is,  what  he  ought  to  be  in  himself,  and  to- 
ward God  and  man.  If,  instead,  she  thinks  only  of  what 
he  is  to  her,  and  what  she  wishes  to  be  to  him,  her  love 
will  prove,  despite  all  its  passionate  or  affectionate  dis- 
guises, not  his  blessing,  but  his  lifelong  curse. 

This,  though  she  may  have  shown  toward  him  any 
amount  of  self-sacrifice  and  blind  devotion.  If  wom- 
en's devotedness  to  men  in  any  relation  of  life  teaches 
the  latter  to  be  selfish,  lazy,  exacting,  imperious,  the  act 
is  not  a  merit  but  a  sin,  and  causes  their  beloved  ones 
to  sin.  In  the  cant  phrase,  which  while  I  use  I  detest, 
they  are  "  setting  the  creature  above  the  Creator,"  and 
will  surely  reap — and  deserve — their  punishment.  Not, 
as  some  theologians  put  it,  in  the  divine  revenge  of  a 
jealous  God,  angry  that  any  poor  mortal  is  loved  beyond 
Himself,  but  as  the  inevitable  result  of  that  perfect 
law — "The  soul  that  sinneth  it  shall  die."  It  must; 
for  in  all  sin  is  the  seed  of  death,  and  God  Himself, 
unless  by  changing  His  all-righteous  essence,  could  not 
make  it  otherwise. 

Therefore,  if  a  mother  by  overweening  indulgence 
helps  her  son  to  become  a  thoughtless  scapegrace;  if  a 
wife  by  cowardly  subserviency  converts  her  husband 
into  a  selfish  brute ;  even  if  a  daughter — as  in  a  late 
case  of  somewhat  notable  literary  biography — sets  up  a 
weak,  luxurious,  unprincipled  father  as  the  idol  of  her 
life,  and  expects  every  body  to  bow  down  and  worship 


WHAT  IS   SELF-SACRIFICE?  17 

him — all  these  foolish  women  have  condoned  sin,  and 
called  vice  virtue ;  have  left  the  truth,  and  believed,  or 
pretended  to  believe,  a  lie.  When  their  false  god  falls, 
or  turns  into  an  avenging  demon,  then  they  come  to  un- 
derstand what  means  the  sin  of  self-sacrifice. 

Sinful,  in  one  sense,  because  it  is  often  only  a  dis- 
guised form  of  a  rather  ugly  quality — self-will. 

I  heard  the  other  day  enthusiastic  praises  of  a  sister 
in  one  of  those  Protestant  communities  who  are  trying — 
and  not  unwisely — to  emulate  the  Koman  Catholic  sis- 
ters of  mercy,  by  absorbing  into  useful  work  the  many 
waifs  and  strays  of  useless  spinsterhood,  eating  their 
hearts  out  in  lonely,  aimless  idleness  in  the  midst  of  a 
struggling  and  suffering  world.  But  this  woman  was 
not  lonely.  She  had  a  father,  whom  she  paid  a  nurse 
to  take  care  of ;  married  sisters,  who  would  have  been 
thankful  for  her  occasional  help  in  their  busy,  anxious 
homes ;  loving  friends,  to  whom  her  influence  and  aid 
might  often  have  been  invaluable.  Yet  she  left  them, 
one  and  all,  and  went  to  spend  her  strength  —  not  so 
very  great  —  upon  strangers.  She  did  expend  it;  for 
she  died,  and  was  almost  canonized  by  some  people ; 
but  some  others,  with  a  simpler  standard  of  holiness, 
might  question  whether  this  devoted  self-sacrifice  should 
not  be  called  by  another  name — self-will.  She  did  the 
thing  she  wished  to  do,  rather  than  what  seemed  laid 
before  her  to  do  ;  and,  though  it  is  always  difficult  to 


18  WHAT   IS   SELF -SACRIFICE? 

judge  such  cases  from  the  outside  without  being  unjust 
to  somebody,  I  think  it  is  an  open  question  whether  she 
did  right  or  wrong. 

The  same  doubt  arises  when  one  hears  of  soldiers  vol- 
unteering— not  sent,  but  volunteering — on  dangerous  ex- 
peditions, leaving  young  wives  or  helpless  children  to  en- 
dure at  home  the  agony  of  suspense  over  a  risk  which 
was  not  demanded  by  duty ;  of  missionaries  quitting 
the  unobtrusive,  useful  work  of  a  parish  priest  in  trying 
to  win  poor  Hodge  from  his  drink,  or  Black  Jem  from 
his  poaching,  for  the  more  exciting  duty  of  converting  a 
handful  of  savages,  at  a  cost  of  about  three  hundred 
pounds  per  head,  and  at  last  making  them  not  so  very 
much  better  Christians  than  either  Hodge  or  Jem,  if 
these  only  had  an  equal  chance  of  spiritual  instruction. 

Lastly,  I  own  that  I  have  no  ardent  admiration  for 
those  religious  devotees  of  any  sort — High  Church,  Low 
Church,  or  no  church  at  all — who,  obeying  an  often  im- 
aginary call,  "  Come  out  from  among  them,  and  be  ye 
separate,"  think  that  it  is  "  the  will  of  the  Lord  "  they 
should  break  the  hearts  of  parents,  alienate  fond  friends, 
renounce  the  plain  duties  of  daily  life  —  and  all  for 
what  ?  To  "  save  their  soul,"  as  they  term  it !  As  if 
the  saving  of  their  own  petty  individual  soul — whatever 
that  phrase  may  mean — was  a  good  worth  the  cost  of 
so  much  actual  evil,  and  to  so  many  other  souls ! 

Understand  me.     I  do  not  deny  that  there  is  such  a 


WHAT   IS    SELF-SACRIFICE?  19 

thing  as  conversion — nay,  sudden  conversion  ;  that  even 
in  this  noisy  nineteenth  century,  as  once  on  the  silent 
shores  of  Galilee,  a  man  may  hear  the  voice,  "  Follow 
me,"  and,  leaving  all,  may  follow  Him,  to  wearing  life- 
long work  in  East-end  parishes,  or  in  scarcely  less  bar- 
barous foreign  lands.  But  let  him  be  quite  sure  first 
who  it  is  that  calleth  him,  and  let  him  take  care  that 
the  sacrifice  offered  is  really  to  God,  and  not  to  his 
own  restless,  excitable,  unsatisfied  imagination  ;  that,  in 
short,  it  is  not  a  sacrifice  to  self,  rather  than  a  self-sac- 
rifice. 

For  such,  alas !  are  a  great  many  of  the  immolations 
I  am  dealing  with  ;  especially  among  women.  Women, 
who  are  so  strong  in  their  capabilities  of  loving,  are, 
above  all,  liable  to  that  guiltiness  in  the  form  of  loving 
which  does  incalculable  harm  to  its  object.  That  is  a 
short-sighted  affection,  indeed,  which  causes  us  to  help 
another  to  do  wrong  instead  of  right.  "When  our  unself- 
ishness makes  others  selfish  ;  when  we  submit  to  their 
injustice,  condone  their  offenses,  call  their  errors  follies, 
and  follies  pretty  "  lovablenesses ;"  then  we  love  them 
in  a  mean,  unworthy  way ;  we  are  not  devotees,  but 
idolaters. 

There  are  women — sisters  and  wives — tied  to  men  so 
unworthy  of  the  bond,  that  their  only  safe  course  is,  not 
obedience,  but  a  little  righteous  rebellion.  There  are 
men,  beginning  life  as  very  good  men,  who  are  seen 


20  WHAT   IS    SELF-SACKIFICE? 

slowly  growing  into  the  bores,  the  torments,  the  laughing- 
stocks  of  their  more  clear-sighted  friends  ;  eaten  up  with 
vanity,  intolerable  through  self-assertion,  just  because 
their  womenkind  love  them — not  rationally,  but  irration- 
ally ;  put  them  on  a  pedestal  and  worship  them,  expect- 
ing every  body,  else  to  do  the  same.  But  every  body 
does  not,  and  so  this  self-devotion  only  makes  its  object 
ridiculous,  if  not  contemptible,  except  to  the  poor  en- 
thusiasts, who  go  on  adoring  him  still,  half  from  habit, 
half  from  fear. 

For  fear  is  the  root  of  many  a  so-called  self-sacrifice. 
Weak  natures  find  it  so  much  easier  to  submit  to  a 
wrong  than  to  fight  against  it.  Less  trouble  also.  Many 
lazy  women  prefer  getting  their  own  way  in  an  under- 
hand, roundabout  fashion,  by  humoring  the  weaknesses 
of  the  men  they  belong  to,  instead  of  honorably  and 
openly  resisting  them,  when  resistance  becomes  neces- 
sary. That  is,  using  the  right — the  only  honest  "  right " 
— a  woman  has,  of  asserting  her  independent  existence 
before  God  and  men  as  a  responsible  human  being, 
who  will  neither  be  forced  to  do  wrong  herself,  nor 
see  another  do  wrong,  if  she  can  help  it. 

Yet  how  many  women  not  only  err  themselves,  but 
aid  and  abet  error,  knowing  it  to  be  such — under  the 
compulsion  of  that  weak  fear  of  man,  which  is  called 
or  miscalled  "  conjugal  obedience." 

Here — I  can  almost  see  my  readers  shudder — "  What ! 


WHAT   IS   SELF -SACRIFICE?  21 

not  obey  one's  husband  ?  What !  counsel  rebellion  in 
our  wives  ?" 

Stop  a  moment.  I  never  said  so.  On  the  contrary,  I 
say  distinctly — Wives,  obey  your  husbands,  as  children 
your  parents — "in  the  Lord."  But  only  "in  the  Lord." 
Yield  as  much,  as  possible  in  ordinary  things ;  conquer 
your  tempers,  modify  your  tastes ;  give  up  every  thing,  in 
short,  that  is  not  a  compromise  of  principle.  When  it 
comes  to  that,  resist !  Whatever  they  may  be  to  you, 
and  how  great  soever  your  love  for  them,  resist  them. 
Never  allow  either  father,  husband,  brother,  son,  to  stand 
between  you  and  the  clear  law  of  right  and  wrong  in 
your  own  soul,  which  the  God  who  made  you  has  put 
there.  If  you  do,  you  fall  into  that  sin  of  which  I  speak, 
and  wi]l  assuredly,  soon  or  late,  earn  its.  bitter  wages. 

For  how  sad  it  is  to  see  wives  whose  husbands  are  in- 
clined to  extravagance  deny  themselves  not  only  lawful 
luxuries,  but  needful  comforts,  in  order  to  make  up  si- 
lently for  the  willful  waste  against  which  they  had  not 
the  courage  to  protest ;  when,  perhaps,  a  few  words,  ten- 
der as  true,  would  have  brought  the  man  to  his  right 
senses,  and  prevented  his  friends  from  calling  him,  as 
of  course  they  do  (behind  his  back),  a  selfish,  pleasure- 
loving  brute.  And  why  should  other  men,  crotchety, 
worrying,  or  bad-tempered,  though  not  really  bad  fellows 
at  heart,  slowly  become  the  torment  of  a  whole  house- 
hold, because  the  mistress  considers  it  her  bounden  duty 


22  WHAT   IS    SELF  -  SACEIFICE  ? 

to  force  every  body  into  yielding  to  what  she  euphuistic- 
ally  terms  "  papa's  little  ways  ?"  Can  she  not  see  that  she 
is  thereby  destroying  all  domestic  comfort,  and  teaching 
both  servants  and  children  to  avoid,  to  fear,  nay,  actual- 
ly to  dislike,  one  whom  they  ought  to  honor  and  love  ? 
A  grain  of  moral  courage  on  her  part,  an  honest  appeal 
to  that  generosity  which  lies  hid  in  most  men's  hearts, 
would  have  helped  the  wife  to  help  her  husband,  and  by 
teaching  him  to  restrain  himself,  make  him  a  far  better 
and  happier  man  than  if  he  had  been  tamely  yielded  to, 
and  so  converted  into  a  sort  of  family  ogre,  which,  little 
as  they  suspect  it,  a  good  many  men  really  are  in  private 
life. 

And  I  think  the  ogre's  wife  in  Hop-o'-my-Thumb  is 
a  very  good  illustration  of  your  meek,  self-sacrificing, 
self-devoted  wives — who  after  all  sometimes  end  in  as- 
sisting themselves,  as  she  did,  to  become  happy  widows. 
Meantime  they  "do  their  duty"  most  obediently;  will 
even  help  in  the  fattening  of  children  for  their  lord's 
provender — other  people's  children,  certainly.  But  there 
are  women  who  consider  it  a  point  of  duty  to  immolate 
their  own. 

How  many  stories  one  could  record  in  which  a  wife, 
fancying  herself  a  pattern  of  conjugal  obedience,  has 
sacrificed  her  children  just  as  much  as  Chaucer's  "  Gri- 
seldis  " — detestable  heroine  ! — sacrificed  hers ;  allowing 
her  whole  family  to  be  worried,  bullied,  and  otherwise 


WHAT   IS    SELF  -  SACRIFICE  ?  23 

evil-entreated,  by  him  whom  the  law  presumes  to  be  its 
guardian  and  head. 

A  misery — which  ends  not  even  there.  For  in  such 
households  brothers  soon  learn  to  treat  sisters  as  papa 
treats  mamma,  with  rough  words,  ceaseless  grumblings, 
selfish  exactingnesses.  Daughters,  brought  up  to  hush 
their  voices  or  run  away  whenever  the  fathers  step  is 
heard — papa,  who  generally  comes  home  cross,  and  re- 
quires to  be  coaxed  and  "  soothed "  by  mamma  when- 
ever she  wants  any  thing — these  girls,  accustomed  to  be 
considered  inferior  animals,  who  must  get  their  own 
way  by  stratagem,  grow  up  into  those  designing  young 
ladies  who  owe  their  power  over  men  to  first  flattering 
and  then  deceiving  them. 

But  what  a  future  for  the  new  generation !  How 
many  unhappy  girls  have  paid  dearly  for  the  early  up- 
bringing of  their  young  husbands,  who,  the  first  glamour 
of  love  passed,  treat  their  wives  as  they  were  allowed  to 
treat  their  sisters,  and  as  they  saw  their  fathers  treat 
their  mothers,  carelessly,  disrespectfully,  with  a  total 
want  of  that  considerate  tenderness  which  is  worth  all 
the  passionate  love  in  the  world.  This — though  they 
may  pass  muster  outside  as  excellent  husbands,  never 
doing  any  thing  really  bad,  and  possessing  many  good 
and  attractive  qualities,  yet  contriving  somehow  quietly 
to  break  the  poor  womanly  heart,  or  harden  it  into  that 
passive  acceptance  of  pain,  which  is  more  fatal  to  mar- 


24  WHAT   IS   SELF-SACEIFICE? 

ried  happiness  than  even  temporary  estrangement.  An- 
ger itself  is  a  safer  thing  than  stolid,  hopeless  indiffer- 
ence. 

The  best  husbands  I  ever  met  came  out  of  a  family 
where  the  mother,  a  most  heroic  and  self-denying  wom- 
an, laid  down  the  absolute  law, "  Girls  first."  Not  in 
any  authority ;  but  first  to  be  thought  of,  as  to  protec- 
tion arid  tenderness.  Consequently,  the  chivalrous  care 
which  these  lads  were  taught  to  show  to  their  own  sis- 
ters naturally  extended  itself  to  all  women.  They  grew 
up  true  gentlemen — gentle  men — generous,  unexacting, 
courteous  of  speech  and  kind  of  heart.  In  them  was 
the  protecting  strength  of  manhood,  which  scorns  to  use 
its  strength  except  for  protection  ;  the  proud  honesty  of 
manhood,  which  infinitely  prefers  being  lovingly  and 
openly  resisted  to  being  "  twisted  around  one's  finger," 
as  mean  men  are  twisted,  and  mean  women  will  always 
be  found  ready  to  do  it ;  but  which,  I  think,  all  honest 
men  and  brave  women  would  not  merely  dislike,  but 
utterly  despise. 

It  seems,  hitherto,  as  if  of  this  sin  of  self-sacrifice 
women  were  oftenest  guilty.  Not  always. 

I  have  spoken  of  tyranny ;  there  is  nothing  so  abso- 
lute as  the  tyranny  of  weakness.  Sometimes  a  really 
good  man  will  suffer  himself  to  be  so  victimized  by  a 
nervous,  silly,  selfish  wife,  that  he  dare  not  call  his  soul 
his  own.  By  a  thousand  underhand  ways,  she  succeeds 


WHAT    IS    SELF-SACRIFICE?  25 

in  alienating  him  from  his  own  family  —  breaking  his 
natural  ties,  hindering  his  most  sacred  duties ;  put- 
ting a  stop  to  his  honest  work  in  the  world — his  right- 
ful influence  therein,  and  all  the  pleasures  that  belong 
thereto.  And  these  being,  to  a  man,  so  much  wider 
than  any  woman's,  the  loss  is  the  greater,  the  pain  the 
sharper. 

One  can  imagine  a  large-minded,  honorably  ambitious 
man  actually  writhing  under  the  sacrifices  forced  from 
him  by  a  wife  feeble  in  every  way — who  destroys  not 
merely  his  happiness,  but  his  good  reputation.  Since, 
when  it  is  seen  that  her  merest  whims  are  held  by 
him  of  paramount  importance — that  her  silly,  selfish  yes 
or  no  is  to  decide  every  action  of  his  life,  do  not  his 
friends  laugh  at  him  behind  his  back,  even  though  be- 
fore his  face  they  may  keep  up  a  decorous  gravity? 
"  Poor  fellow  !  with  such  a  goose  for  his  wife !"  Yet 
the  pity  is  akin  to  contempt ;  and  something  more  than 
contempt  is  felt  —  especially  by  his  mother,  sisters,  or 
critical  female  friends  —  toward  that  wife,  who  exacts 
from  him  the  renunciation  of  all  his  duties,  except  those 
toward  herself ;  in  plain  English, "  makes  a  fool  of  him," 
because  in  his  devotion  he  has  offered  every  thing  to 
her,  and  she  has  meanly  accepted  the  sacrifice. 

He  ought  never  to  have  made  it.  He  ought  to  have 
given  her  care,  tenderness,  affection — all  that  man  should 
give  to  women,  and  strength  to  weakness;  but  there  it 

B 


26  WHAT   IS    SELF  -  SACRIFICE  ? 

should  have  ended.  No  wife  has  a  right  to  claim  the 
husband's  whole  life,  its  honorable  toil,  its  lawful  en- 
joyments. If  she  can  not  share,  she  should  learn  at 
least  not  to  stand  in  the  way  of  either.  And  the  man 
who  submits  to  be  so  tyrannized  over,  as  weak  women 
in  their  small  way  can  tyrannize,  with  that  "  continual 
dropping  that  weareth  away  the  stone,"  deserves  all  he 
gets :  his  friends'  covert  smiles,  his  enemies'  uncon- 
cealed sneer. 

"We  talk  a  great  deal  about  the  error  of  "  spoiling " 
our  children ;  may  we  not  "  spoil "  our  wives,  our  hus- 
bands, not  to  speak  of  other  less  important  ties,  quite  as 
much,  and  as  sinfully?  For  life  is  a  long  course  of  mut- 
ual education,  which  ends  but  with  the  grave.  If  we 
are  wise  enough  to  recognize  this,  and  act  upon  it,  nor 
be  afraid  of  that  accidental  attrition  which  only  rubs  off 
inevitable  angles — if,  in  short,  our  aim  in  all  the  dear 
bonds  of  existence  is  not  so  much  to  please  either  our- 
selves or  one  another,  but  to  do  right — which  means 
pleasing  God — then  all  is  well.  But  we  shirk  the  right, 
and  accept  the  agreeable ;  if  we  expect  life  to  be  all 
holidays  and  no  school,  then  we  shall  soon  begin  to  find 
out  its  utter  weariness  and  worthlessness,  to  blame  the 
faithless,  ungrateful  world — as  if  good  done  with  the 
expectation  of  gratitude  were  ever  worth  any  thing! 
And  we  shall  come  to  the  end  of  it  all  with  a  dreary 
sense  of  having  renounced  every  thing  and  gained  noth- 


WHAT   IS    SELF  -  SACRIFICE  ?  27 

ing,  except,  perhaps,  the  poor  consolation  of  considering 
ourselves  martyrs. 

And  why  ?  Because  we  mistook  the  boundary  where 
virtue  passes  into  vice  —  self-devotion  into  blind  and 
foolish,  nay,  sinful  self-sacrifice. 

There  is  a  point  beyond  which  we  have  no  right 
to  ignore  our  own  individuality — that  is,  supposing  we 
have  any.  Many  people  have  none.  They  get  the 
credit  of  being  extremely  self-denying,  because  they 
really  have  no  particular  self  to  deny.  Their  feeble 
nature  is  only  capable  of  imitating  others ;  and  their 
stagnant  placidity  is  no  absolute  virtue,  but  the  mere 
negation  of  a  vice.  Even  as  there  are  many  most  "  re- 
spectable" people,  whom  nothing  keeps  from  being 
villains,  except  one  fortunate  fact — that  they  are  such 
arrant  cowards. 

But  to  those  born  with  decided  tastes,  feelings,  pos- 
sibly talents,  the  exercise  of  all  these  is  an  actual  ne- 
cessity. And  lawfully  so.  If  God  has  given  us  our 
little  light,  what  right  have  we  to  hide  it  under  a 
bushel,  because  some  affectionate,  purblind  friend  dis- 
likes the  glare  of  it,  or  fears  it  will  set  the  house  on 
fire  ?  No ;  let  us  put  it  in  its  proper  place,  a  safe 
candlestick,  if  it  be  a  light,  but  let  nobody  persuade  or 
force  us  to  put  it  out. 

What  bitter  sacrifices  one  member  of  a  family  gifted 
with  a  strong  proclivity,  perhaps  even  a  genius,  for  art, 


28  WHAT    IS    SELF  -  SACRIFICE  ? 

music,  or  literature,  sometimes  has  to  make  to  the  rest., 
who  can  not  understand  it ! 

Now  a  one-sided  enthusiast — a  Bernard  Pallissy,  for 
instance  —  makes  a  very  disagreeable  husband  and  a 
still  worse  father  of  a  family ;  and  a  modern  Corinne, 
with  her  hair  down  her  back,  sitting  playing  the  harp 
all  day  long,  instead  of  going  into  her  kitchen,  order- 
ing her  dinner,  and  looking  after  her  servants,  would 
be  a  most  aggravating  wife  for  any  man  to  marry. 
But,  on  the  other  hand,  a  gentleman  with  no  ear  for 
music,  married  to  a  wife  who  is  a  born  musician,  may 
make  a  very  great  victim  of  that  poor  lady.  And  the 
pretty  commonplace  girl,  whom  a  clever  man  of  poet- 
ical nature  has  idealized  into  an  angel  in  the  house, 
sometimes  succeeds  in  slowly  but  completely  extin- 
guishing in  him  that  higher  life  of  heart  and  intellect 
—the  spiritual  life,  compared  to  which  the  worldly  life 
is  mere  dust  and  ashes,  and  even  the  domestic  life, 
sweet  as  it  is,  a  body  without  a  soul. 

"We  ought  always  to  be  chary  in  allowing  ourselves 
to  be  forced  into  sacrifices  which  do  not  benefit,  but 
merely  gratify  the  persons  exacting  them.  First,  be- 
cause a  person  who  can  be  gratified  by  a  self-sacrifice 
is  —  rather  a  mean  person ;  secondly,  because  to  re- 
nounce any  innocent  taste  or  pursuit  is  not  merely 
foolish,  but  wrong.  All  our  talents  were  given  us  to 
use ;  not  to  bury  in  a  napkin.  If  we  do  so  bury  them, 


WHAT   IS    SELF  -  SACRIFICE  ?  29 

to  please  even  the  dearest  friend  on  earth,  we  are  guilty 
of  not  merely  cowardice,  but  infidelity  to  our  trust ; 
and  depend  upon  it,  the  sacrifice  will  do  no  good  to 
that  other  person  and  great  harm  to  ourselves.  To  say 
nothing  of  the  sneering  comments  of  outsiders,  and  the 
just  condemnation  of  wiser  folk,  to  which  we  expose 
— not  ourselves :  we  are  exalted  into  martyrs — but  those 
we  love,  if  we  love  them  so  foolishly  as  to  suffer  them 
to  victimize  us  unnecessarily. 

And  very  sad  to  see  is  the  extent  to  which  some  peo- 
ple are  victimized  in  domestic  life ;  from  bad  health, 
bad  temper,  acting  and  reacting  upon  each  other,  and 
both  equally  blamable ;  for  miserable  as  the  sufferers 
are,  the  cause  of  their  sufferings  is  often  nobody  but 
themselves.  To  maintain  a  sound  mind  in  a  sound 
body,  so  as  to  be  a  help  instead  of  a  burden,  not  to  say 
a  nuisance,  to  our  family  and  friends,  requires  an 
amount  of  self-control  of  which  not  every  body  is  ca- 
pable. Some  people  consider  it  "silly"  to  be  careful 
of  health,  and  others  find  it  so  "  interesting "  to  be  ill 
— that  the  amount  of  pain,  worry,  and  anxiety  which 
is  inflicted  by  those  who  allow  themselves  to  fall  into 
absolutely  preventable  illness  is  very  great.  Equally 
great  is  the  self-sacrifice  entailed  upon  kindly  people, 
who  can  not  stand  by  and  see  others  suffer,  although 
deservedly,  without  coining  to  the  rescue  with  every 
help  they  can  bring. 


30  WHAT    IS    SELF  -  SACRIFICE  ? 

How  often,  too,  do  we  see  in  a  family,  not  otherwise 
unamiable,  one  especial  "root  of  bitterness,"  a  thor- 
oughly ill-conditioned  person,  of  whom  all  the  rest 
stand  in  dread,  to  whom  they  give  up  every  thing,  and 
for  whom  they  will  do  any  thing,  just  for  the  sake  of 
peace.  Long  habit  has  perhaps  half  accustomed  them 
to  the  torment ;  they  have  learned  to  walk  pretty  stead- 
ily under  it,  like  a  man  with  a  nail  in  his  shoe — but 
what  a  torment  it  is !  A  person  who  takes  every  thing 
amiss,  whose  mood  you  never  can  be  sure  of  for  a 
single  hour,  whom  you  are  obliged  to  propitiate,  as  the 
savages  their  idols  ;  one  whom  you  must  be  on  your 
guard  with,  and  make  perpetual  apologies  for,  lest  the 
world  outside  should  surmise  any  thing  wrong — with 
whom  you  never  can  find  any  rest ;  and  though  he  or 
she  may  be  your  nearest  and  dearest,  ostensibly,  you 
are  painfully  conscious  that  the  only  relief  is  to  get 
away  from  him,  or  to  get  him  away. 

I  have  grave  doubts  whether  in  a  case  of  this  kind, 
and  we  all  know  many  such,  though  we  are  too  polite 
to  say  so,  it  is  not  the  duty  of  a  conscientious  head  of 
a  family,  or  its  members,  to  take  very  strong  measures. 
There  are  some  people  so  intolerable  to  live  with  that 
nobody  should  be  allowed  to  live  with  them.  Every 
effort  should  be  made  by  the  family  which  unhappily 
owns  them,  to  free  itself  from  them,  in  any  lawful  w^ay, 
and  at  any  cost  of  money  or  inconvenience.  Some,  who 


WHAT   IS    SELF  -  SACRIFICE  ?  31 

are  an  absolute  torture  to  their  own  relations,  do  well 
enough  with  strangers :  the  self -restraint  they  then  are 
obliged  to  exercise  is  a  wholesome  discipline  for  them, 
and  the  people  they  afflict  being  farther  off  are  not  so 
deeply  afflicted  as  their  own  kith  and  kin. 

Would  it  not  be  worth  while  if,  instead  of  lauding 
to  the  skies  the  self-sacrifice  of  a  family  in  thus  victim- 
izing itself,  we  were  to  institute  an  Asylum  for  Family 
Nuisances,  to  which  could  be  removed  the  cross-grained 
brother  or  sister,  the  cantankerous  aunt,  the  "  difficult " 
relative  of  any  sort,  whom,  if  not  a  relative,  the  other 
members  of  the  household  would  fly  from  as  from 
something  harmful  and  hateful  ?  Instead,  they  go  on 
enduring  and  enduring,  till  the  harm  becomes  irreme- 
diable. Which  is  the  worst,  to  put  a  detestable  thing  or 
person  so  far  from  you  that  you  cease  to  feel  any  thing 
toward  him  save  a  mild  indifference?  or  to  suffer  your- 
self and  others  to  be  so  tormented  by  him  that  the  sanc- 
timonious "If  it  would  please  God  to  take  him" — 
which  is  only  an  elegant  form  of  murder — ceases  to 
appear  wrong,  only  natural  ? 

Yet  this  is  what  your  vaunted  self-sacrifice  leads  to, 
when  perpetrated  for  the  sake  of  unworthy  people. 

But  there  are  people,  amiable,  interesting,  affectionate 
(externally),  to  whom  one  sometimes  sees,  whole  families 
sacrificing  themselves,  without  the  slightest  sense  of  the 
harm  they  are  doing  —  I  mean  the  "ne'er-do-weels." 


32  WHAT   IS    SELF-SACRIFICE? 

Not  the  people  who  do  actual  evil,  but  the  people  who 
never  do  good.  Of  such  is  the  weak,  amiable,  impecu- 
nious brother,  who  always  comes  back  and  back  to  drain 
the  last  half-penny  from  his  hard-working  sisters.  Per- 
haps he  has  no  vices  whatever,  is  of  a  pleasant  and  not 
unaffectionate  nature,  only  somehow  he  contrives  to  let 
every  thing  slip  through  his  fingers — money,  time,  op- 
portunity. And  as  he  in  reality  thinks  of  nobody  but 
himself,  of  course  he  marries  early  and  rashly,  and 
brings  his  wife  and  family  to  be  kept  by  his  sisters, 
who  go  on  impoverishing  themselves  year  by  year,  do- 
ing not  only  their  duty — all  sisters  must  do  that — but  a 
great  deal  more  than  their  duty ;  submitting  to  endless 
exactions,  allowing  not  only  the  feeble,  who  are  a  natu- 
ral burden,  but  the  strong,  the  self-indulgent,  the  extrav- 
agant, to  live  upon  them,  and  drain  the  life-blood  out  of 
them,  till  death  comes  in  mercy  to  end  the  never-ceasing 
sacrifice.  A  sacrifice  which  has  done  no  good  to  any 
body ;  for  it  has  left  the  selfish  selfish  still,  and  the  ex- 
travagant as  reckless  as  ever ;  perhaps  worse  than  ever, 
from  the  long  habit  of  receiving  supplies  from  others, 
instead  of  earning  their  luxuries,  if  they  must  have  them, 
for  themselves.  The  life-long  devotion  of  a  whole  fam- 
ily to  one  unworthy  member  has  been  no  more  than 
pouring  water  into  a  sieve ;  it  has  never  benefited  him, 
and  it  has  ruined  the  rest. 

Another,  though  rarer  case,  and  less  patent  to  the 


\VIIAT   IS    SELF  -  SACRIFICE  ?  33 

world,  we  sometimes  see,  in  which  a  number  of  unmar- 
ried sisters  hang  around  a  kind  brother  as  their  natural 
guardian ;  which  he  is,  within  certain  limits.  But  these 
limits  the  amiable,  helpless  women  do  not  see.  He  en- 
ters the  flower  of  his  age,  he  passes  it,  yet  still  he  can 
not  marry — could  not  possibly  do  it,  without  turning  his 
sisters  out  of  doors.  He  shrinks  from  that,  shrinks,  too, 
from  offering  such  an  encumbered  hand  and  heart  to 
any  girl.  And,  besides,  it  is  not  every  girl  who  in  mar- 
rying likes  to  marry  a  whole  family.  So  time  slips  on ; 
the  more  high-minded  and  generous  the  man  is,  the 
more  complete  is  his  sacrifice.  Perhaps  he  gets  habitu- 
ated to  it,  and  almost  content  in  it — but  it  is  none  the 
less  a  sacrifice.  He  may  be  a  good  and  not  unhappy 
old  bachelor,  but  lie  would  have  been  much  better  and 
happier  married,  and  in  a  home  of  his  very  own.  His 
sisters  too,  if,  though  poor,  they  had  ceased  to  be  help- 
less, had  gone  out  into  the  world  and  earned  their  own 
living ;  or,  if  rich,  they  had  made  for  themselves  an  in- 
dependent household,  how  much  higher  and  more  per- 
fect lives  they  might  have  led. 

Of  course  there  are  exceptions  to  every  thing,  and 
sometimes  a  combination  of  sad  destinies,  mutual  disap- 
pointments, strong  fraternal  attachment,  and  great  nat- 
ural affinity,  make  these  households  of  unmarried  broth- 
ers and  sisters  very  peaceful  and  honorable  substitutes 
for  the  better  and  completer  domestic  life.  One  has 

B2 


34  WHAT   IS   SELF -SACRIFICE? 

seen  more  than  one  such,  which  is  more  than  a  resting- 
place — a  visible  haven  of  refuge ;  not  only  to  its  inhab- 
itants, but  to  all  around.  Yet  there  are  others  upon 
which  standers-by  look  with  pity  not  unmixed  with  in- 
dignation. And  the  nobler,  the  more  silent  the  sacrifice, 
the  greater  is  the  sadness  of  it — even  though  it  can  not 
quite  come  under  the  name  of  sin. 

Self-devotion — God  forbid  I  should  ever  say  a  word 
in  condemnation  of  that !  It  is  the  noblest  thing  in  all 
this  world,  and  the  rarest  —  No,  not  rare ;  few  family 
histories  are  without  some  heroic  or  pathetic  instance 
thereof,  continued  throughout  whole  lives  with  unflinch- 
ing fortitude.  And  could  death  open  the  locked  records 
of  many  a  heart,  how  often  would  some  secret  be  found 
there  that  would  furnish  a  key  to  all  the  history  of  the 
finished  life — some  strong,  one  love — some  eternal  faith- 
fulness—  which  all  the  chances  and  changes  of  exist- 
ence could  never  shake,  which  was  the  impulse  of  every 
thought,  the  motive  of  every  action,  the  compelling  force 
of  every  line  of  conduct.  A  devotion,  not  a  passion, 
inasmuch  as  it  was  able  to  set  itself  entirely  aside — 
absorb  itself  in  the  well-being  of  the  other,  whose  good 
it  sought,  without  reckoning  any  personal  cost,  through 
weal  and  woe,  pleasure  and  pain,  requital  or  non-requit- 
al. This  is  a  sight — not  to  blame  or  weep  over,  but  to  re- 
joice in ;  for  it  is  not  blind  self-sacrifice ;  it  is  open-eyed 
self-devotion — blessed  on  both  sides,  both  to  the  giver 


WHAT   IS   SELF-SACRIFICE?  35 

and  receiver.  It  has  sharp  agonies  sometimes — what 
deep  emotion  is  without  them?  but  out  of  all  come 
peace  and  content.  It  is  pleasing  in  God's  sight  as 
lovely  in  man's,  because  there  is  no  sin  in  it,  no  selfish- 
ness on  either  side ;  and  in  its  very  sadness — it  must  of 
necessity  be  often  sad — there  is  a  sacredness  beyond  all 
mortal  joy. 

Of  all  forms  of  self-devotion,  the  one  which,  even 
when  it  amounts  to  absolute  self-sacrifice,  we  can  not 
but  regard  with  very  tender  and  lenient  eyes,  is  the  de- 
votion of  the  young  to  the  old,  of  children  to  parents. 
No  doubt  there  is  a  boundary  beyond  which  even  this 
ought  not  to  be  permitted ;  but  the  remedy  lies  on  the 
elder  side.  There  are  such  things  as  unworthy,  selfish, 
exacting  parents,  to  whom  duty  must  be  done,  simply 
for  the  sake  of  parenthood,  without  regarding  their  per- 
sonality. "Honor  thy  father  and  thy  mother"  is  the 
absolute  command,  bounded  by  no  proviso  as  to  whether 
the  parents  are  good  or  bad.  Of  course  no  one  can  lit- 
erally "  honor  "  that  which  is  bad — still  one  can  respect 
the  abstract  bond  in  having  patience  with  the  individual. 

But  I  think  every  high  or  honorable  instinct  in  human 
nature  will  feel  that  there  is  hardly  a  limit  to  be  set  to 
the  devotion  of  a  child  to  a  good  parent — righteous  de- 
votion, repaying  to  failing  life  all  that  its  own  young 
life  once  received  of  care  and  comfort  and  blessing. 
And  no  good,  or  even  moderately  good  parent  is  ever 


36  WHAT   IS    SELF-SACRIFICE? 

likely  to  allow  this  devotion  to  pass  into  self-sacrifice. 
Surely,  as  long  as  consciousness  and  reason  lasted,  all 
true  fathers  and  mothers  would  prevent,  in  all  possible 
ways,  the  complete  absorption  of  the  younger  life  into 
theirs;  nor  allow  their  poor  expiring  flame  to  be  kept 
alight  a  few  years,  a  few  months,  by  the  vital  breath  of 
a  far  more  valuable  existence. 

But  if  such  a  case  does  happen — the  child  alone,  and 
no  outsider,  has  a  right  to  decide  upon  the  due  extent 
of  the  sacrifice,  and  how  far  it  is  necessary  or  beneficial, 
even  to  the  aged  sufferers  themselves.  There  may  be  a 
point  beyond  which  the  most  affectionate  child  has  no 
right  to  go — but  must  pause  and  judge  whether  a  duty, 
which  inevitably  overrides  all  other  duties,  has  not  in  it 
something  amiss ;  even  as  a  love  which  destroys  all  oth- 
er loves  can  not  fail  to  deteriorate  the  whole  being. 

And  here,  reasoning  in  a  circle,  we  come  round  to 
the  point  from  whence  we  started  —  "He  that  loveth 
father  or  mother" — or  any  other — "more  than  me"- 
that  is,  he  who  allows  his  love  for  them  to  make  them 
err  against  me — "  is  not  worthy  of  me."  Therefore  all 
self-sacrifice,  made  solely  for  the  love  of  man,  or  for  the 
gratification  of  some  merely  human  ambition,  is  not  a 
righteous  but  a  sinful  thing — and,  as  sin,  will  assuredly 
find  its  punishment. 

This  furnishes,  apparently,  a  solution  to  the  great  mys- 
tery why  so  many  noble  self-sacrifices  are  so  futile,  so 


WHAT    IS    SELF  -  SACRIFICE  ?  37 

aimless,  so  positively  injurious?  "I  am  the  Lord  thy 
God — thou  shalt  have  no  other  gods  before  me."  If  we 
make  to  ourselves  idols,  of  any  sort — that  is,  if  we  allow 
love  to  conquer  right,  and  set  aside  what  we  ought  to  do 
in  favor  of  what  we  like  to  do,  we  suffer  accordingly — 
and  God  Himself,  who  is  justice  as  well  as  mercy,  can 
not  save  us  from  suffering.  And  this  is  what  I  meant 
when  I  first  called  this  sermon  the  Sin  of  Self-sacrifice. 


Sermon  13f. 
OUR   OFTEN    INFIRMITIES. 


II. 

OUR  OFTEN  INFIRMITIES. 

DOES  it  ever  occur  to  those  of  us  who  are  no 
longer  young — who  begin  to  feel  this  wonderful 
machine  a  little  the  worse  for  wear,  while  its  spiritual 
inmate  is  as  fresh  and  strong  as  ever — how  low  appar- 
ently is  the  standard  of  health  in  this  present  gener- 
ation ?  How  seldom  among  our  friends  and  acquaint- 
ances can  we  point  out  a  thoroughly  healthy  person? 
I  will  not  even  say  a  robust  person,  but  one  who  has 
sufficient  vitality  of  body  to  keep  up  the  daily  require- 
ments of  his  mental  work,  or  any  sort  of  work,  without 
complaining,  without  having  continually  to  resort  to  ex- 
traneous helps,  medical  or  hygienic,  wherewith  to  bol- 
ster up  his  failing  powers,  and  make  him  capable  of 
his  necessary  duties. 

We  do  not  need  to  reach  the  first  half  century  of 
life  in  order  to  see  our  compeers,  and  alas !  too  often 
others  much  younger  in  the  race,  drop  out  of  it  one 
by  one — sink  into  miserable  valetudinarians,  or  grow- 
ing old  before  their  time,  slip  from  the  active  enjoy- 


42  OUK   OFTEN    INFIRMITIES. 

ment  of  life  into  the  mere  endurance  of  it.  How 
many  among  us  who  only  yesterday,  as  it  were,  seemed 
ready  for  an  eternity  of  youth  and  labor  —  to  whom 
three-score  years  and  ten  appeared  all  too  short  for 
what  they  had  to  do — now  consciously  or  unconsciously 
echo  the  pathetic  words  of  one  whose  name  I  this  day 
write  with  tears,  for  Charles  Kingsley  only  yesterday 
"fell  on  sleep:" 

"Men  must  work,  and  women  must  weep, 
And  the  sooner  it's  over  the  sooner  to  sleep." 

Nay,  all  have  not  even  strength  to  work,  and  some 
scarcely  enough  strength  to  weep,  but  drop  into  help- 
less silence  and  a  weary  looking  forward  to  that  death- 
slumber  which  is  to  them  the  only  possible  rest.  I 
have  heard  people  say  they  do  not  even  want  to  "go 
to  heaven ;"  they  only  want  to  go  to  sleep.  They  are 
"  so  tired." 

Why  so  ?  Why,  in  an  age  supposed  to  be  thus  civ- 
ilized— over-civilized  indeed ;  which  takes  such  exceed- 
ing care  of  itself,  mentally  and  physically ;  writes  cart- 
loads of  medical  books  and  makes  speeches  by  the  horn- 
on  sanitary  subjects — is  the  old-fashioned  health  of  our 
forefathers  a  thing  almost  unknown  ?  True,  we  are 
said  to  live  longer  than  they  did,  but  what  sort  of  life 
is  it  ?  Do  we  enjoy  the  full  vigor  of  a  sound  mind 
in  a  sound  body,  to  be  used  both  for  the  service  of  God 


OUE    OFTEN   INFIRMITIES.  43 

and  man  ;  good  at  work,  good  at  play ;  able  to  make 
the  very  most  of  every  hour  ?  Are  we  wholesome  trees 
bearing  fruit  to  the  last,  and  still  keeping  "  strong  and 
well -liking?"  Or  do  we  immediately  after  our  first 
youth,  often  before  it  is  ended,  begin  to  fade  and  fail, 
to  grumble  at  our  work,  to  weary  of  our  pleasures,  to 
be  pestered  ourselves,  and,  worse,  to  pester  all  our 
friends,  with  our  "  often  infirmities  ?"  Not  actual  sick- 
nesses, but  infirmities  ;  small  sufferings  of  all  sorts,  and 
a  general  sense  of  incapacity  for  the  duties  of  life, 
which  entirely  takes  .away  its  happy  normal  condition 
—not  to  think  about  one's  self  at  all. 

When  a  man  makes  a  habit  of  dwelling  upon  his 
sins,  depend  upon  it  he  has  a  good  many  sins  to  dwell 
on  ;  and  he  who  persists  in  "  investigating  his  own  in- 
side "  will  very  soon  fall,  if  he  have  not  already  fallen, 
into  a  thoroughly  diseased  state.  Even  as  truly  good 
people  are  good  without  knowing  it,  so  really  healthy 
people  never  notice  their  health.  The  perfect  life  is 
the  child's  life  of  absolute  unconsciousness. 

But  this  is  a  condition  so  rare  nowadays,  whatever  it 
was  in  days  past,  that  the  question  of  our  often  infirm- 
ities, to  borrow  an  apostolic  phrase,  deserves  a  sermon 
quite  as  much  as  many  topics  which  are  discussed  in 
pulpits,  where  it  is  mostly  the  fashion  to  attend  to  the 
soul  first  and  the  body  afterward. 

Not  very  long  ago  I  heard  a  clergyman  seriously 


44:  OUK   OFTEN    INFIKMITIES. 

proclaim  that  "  the  Gospel "  must  first  be  given  to  the 
starving,  sinning,  suffering  denizens  of  London  courts 
and  alleys — the  Gospel  first,  and  food,  clothes,  soap  and 
water,  and  decent  dwellings  afterward.  It  is  one  of 
the  trying  things  of  going  to  church  that  whatever  a 
man  says  one  must  hear  him ;  one  can  not  stand  up 
and  contradict  him ;  else  I  should  like  to  have  sug- 
gested to  this  well-meaning  but  narrow-visioned  preach- 
er how  much  a  man's  moral  nature  depends  npon  his 
surroundings.  Diogenes  might  not  have  been  a  cynic 
if  he  had  not  lived  in  a  tub ;  and  I  doubt  if  the  no- 
blest man  alive,  if  compelled  to  inhabit  a  pig-sty,  would 
long  remain  much  better  than  a  swine. 

Therefore  it  behooves  us  to  take  heed  that  the  cor- 
poreal habitation  into  which  our  spirit  is  put — for  this 
life  at  least — is  dealt  with  as  kindly  as  circumstances 
allow,  carefully  cherished,  swept  and  garnished,  arid 
made  the  most  commodious  residence  possible,  so  as 
to  allow  free  play  to  its  immortal  inhabitant. 

It  is  true — too  true,  alas  !  that  in  many  instances  this 
desirable  end  is  neutralized  by  hereditary  weaknesses 
— the  sins  of  the  fathers  inevitably  visited  upon  the 
children — and  by  our  own  early  faults  ignorantly  com- 
mitted, and  the  unalterable  circumstances  in  which  our 
lot  is  placed.  We  can  not  care  for  ourselves  without 
sacrificing  more  than  ought  to  be  sacrificed  by  any  hu- 
man being  to  his  own  individuality.  But  there  is  a 


OUR   OFTEN   INFIRMITIES.  45 

medium  course  always  possible ;  and  sore  let  and  hin- 
dered as  we  may  often  be,  I  think  some  of  us  very 
often  create  our  own  hinderances  and  add  weight  to 
our  natural  burdens  by  the  want  of  a  certain  respect 
for  the  body,  as  a  faithful  servant,  out  of  whom  we 
must  get  a  good  deal  of  work  before  we  have  done 
with  it. 

We  generally  begin  by  working  it  a  great  deal  too 
hard.  We  rejoice  in  our  youth ;  we  exult  in  our 
strength  ;  we  use  both  recklessly,  boastfully,  as  if  they 
were  wholly  our  own  to  do  as  we  liked  with,  and  could 
never  possibly  wear  out.  So  in  a  thousand  careless 
ways  we  squander  vitality,  never  thinking  that  we 
have  only  a  certain  quantity  given  us  to  last  till  death, 
and  that  for  every  atom  of  wasted  health — heedlessly 
wasted  —  nature,  that  is  God,  will  assuredly  one  day 
bring  us  to  judgment. 

Still  we  are  not  wholly  to  blame.  I  believe  many 
feeble  men  or  delicate  women  of  to-day  owe  the  help- 
lessness of  their  lives  to  the  ignorance  of  sanitary  laws 
of  the  parents  of  forty  or  fifty  years  ago.  Even  as  fifty 
years  hence  our  children  may  have  to  reproach  us  for 
that  system  of  overfeeding,  and  especially  overdrink- 
ing, which  many  doctors  now  advocate  for  the  young 
generation.  I  doubt  if  even  the  calomel  powders,  jalap 
and  gin,  brimstone  and  treacle  of  our  tormented  child- 
hood, were  worse  than  the  meat  three  times  a  day,  the 


46  CUE   OFTEN   INFIRMITIES. 

brandy  and  the  daily  glass  of  wine,  poured  into  inno- 
cent little  stomachs,  which  naturally  would  keep  to  the 
infant's  food  of  bread  and  milk,  and  almost  nothing  be- 
sides. Certainly,  not  stimulants. 

This  is  neither  a  medical  treatise  nor  a  teetotal  essay ; 
yet,  as  he  is  a  coward  who  does  not  openly  advance  his 
colors,  I  do  not  hesitate  to  say  that  I  believe  half  the 
bodily  and  spiritual  ailments  of  this  world  spring  from 
that  much  misinterpreted  and  not  by  any  means  in- 
spired sentence  of  St.  Paul,  "Drink  no  longer  water, 
but  use  a  little  wine  for  thy  stomach's  sake  and  thine 
often  infirmities."  How  often  do  we  hear  it  quoted. 
But  nobody  considers  that  the  advice  was  given  because 
of  the  "  often  infirmities,"  the  origin  of  which  we,  of 
course,  do  not  know.  That  which  is  most  valuable  as  a 
medicine,  is  poison  when,  taken  as  a  food.  To  accus- 
tom a  child  or  a  youth  to  strong  drinks  is  to  institute 
a  craving  after  them  —  a  necessity  for  them  —  almost 
more  dangerous  than  the  temporary  good,  if  it  be  a 
good,  effected  by  their  use. 

Most  children  have  an  instinctive  dislike  to  alcohol 
in  any  shape ;  unless,  indeed,  there  be  an  hereditary 
predisposition  toward  it — of  all  predispositions  the  most 
fatal.  Any  one  who  knows  the  strong  pureness  of  a 
constitution  which  has  received  from  two  or  three  tem- 
perate generations  an  absolute  indifference  to  stimu- 
lants, can  hardly  overvalue  the  blessing  it  is  to  a  child, 


OUK   OFTEN    INFIKMITIES.  47 

boy  or  girl,  to  bring  it  up  from  babyhood  in  the  firm 
faith  that  wine,  beer,  and  spirits  are  only  medicines,  not 
drinks  ;  that  when  you  are  thirsty,  be  you  man,  woman, 
or  child,  the  right  and  natural  beverage  for  you  is  wa- 
ter, and  only  water.  If  you  require  it,  if  you  have  been 
so  corrupted  by  the  evil  influences  of  your  youth  or  the 
luxurious  taste  of  your  after -years  that  you  "can  not 
drink  water,"  either  there  is  something  radically  dis- 
eased in  your  constitution,  or  you  will  soon  bring  your- 
self to  that  condition.  Long  before  you  are  middle- 
aged  you  will  have  no  lack  of  "  often  infirmities." 

I  could  write  pages  on  the  folly — the  absolute  mad- 
ness of  parents  in  allowing  unlimited  beer  to  growing 
lads,  daily  glasses  of  wine  to  overworked,  delicate  girls. 
Kay,  descending  to  the  very  root  of  things,  I  would 
implore  all  parents  who  wish  their  sons  to  have  the 
strength  of  a  Samson  to  remember  Manoah's  wife,  and 
suffer  neither  doctors  nor  old  women  to  persuade  them 
that  strong  drinks  are  essential  to  even  a  nursing  moth- 
er; but  that  that  mother  is  specially  wise,  specially 
blessed — aye,  and  her  children  will  rise  up  and  call  her 
so — who  has  had  the  self-restraint  and  courage  to  make 
them,  before  their  birth  and  after,  in  the  solemn  lan- 
guage of  Holy  Writ,  "  Kazarites  from  their  mother's 
womb." 

To  "  drink  no  wine  nor  strong  drink,"  to  be  absolute- 
ly  independent  of  the  need  for  it  or  the  temptation  to 


4:8  OUK   OFTEN    INFIRMITIES. 

it — any  young  man  or  woman  brought  up  on  tins  prin- 
ciple has  not  only  a  defense  against  many  moral  evils, 
but  a  physical  stronghold  always  in  reserve  to  fall  back 
upon,  when  accidental  sickness  and  the  certain  feeble- 
ness of  old  age  call  for  that  resource,  which  I  do  not 
deny  is  at  times  a  most  valuable  one.  But  the  advice 
I  would  give  to  the  young  and  healthy  is  this :  Save 
yourselves  from  all  spirituous  drinks,  as  drinks,  as  long 
as  ever  you  can ;  even  as  you  would  resist  using  a 
crutch  as  long  as  you  had  your  own  two  legs  to  walk 
upon.  If  you  like  wine — well,  say  honestly  you  take  it 
because  you  like  it,  that  you  prefer  indulging  your 
palate  at  the  expense  of  your  health ;  but  never  delude 
yourself,  or  suffer  others  to  delude  you,  that  alcohol  is 
a  necessity,  any  more  than  stays  or  orthopoedic  instru- 
ments, or  strong  medicinal  poisons,  or  other  sad  helps 
which  nature  and  science  provide  to  sustain  us  in  our 
slow  but  sure  decay. 

Still,  to  retard  that  decay  as  much  as  possible,  to  keep 
up  to  the  last  limit  the  intellectual  and  physical  vigor 
which  is  such  a  blessing,  not  only  to  ourselves  but  to 
those  about  us,  this  is  the  religion  of  the  body  —  too 
often  lost  sight  of — but  which  I  for  one  count  it  no 
heathenism  both,  to  believe  in  and  to  preach.  A  re- 
ligion, not  a  superstition ;  the  reverence  and  care  for 
the  physical  temple  of  the  divine  human  soul,  with- 
out in  the  least  sinking  to  that  luxurious  Greek 


OUR    OFTEN    INFIRMITIES.  49 

philosophy  which  considered  the  body  only  as  worth 
regarding. 

On  the  contrary,  if  we  must  be  either  Sybarites  or 
Spartans,  better  be  Spartans.  The  harsh  and  rough  up- 
bringing of  our  grandmothers  probably  did  less  harm 
than  the  present  system  of  mingled  overcare  and  care- 
lessness. If  they  thought  too  little  of  children,  made 
them  often  poor  miserable  victims  to  their  elders,  we 
nowadays  see  ourselves  victimized  to  the  younger  gen- 
eration rather  too  much.  They  also  suffer ;  in  fact,  to 
use  the  common  phrase,  are  "  killed  with  kindness." 
Parents  will  not  see  that  a  child  is  safer  turned  out  to 
play  in  all  weathers  than  shut  up  from  the  least  breath 
of  wind  in  nurseries  so  ill-ventilated  that  the  air  is  actu- 
ally fetid.  And  people  who  would  shudder  at  the  idea 
of  their  boys  and  girls  running  about  barefooted,  take 
them  (in  low-necked,  sleeveless  muslin  frocks,  which 
leave  exposed  the  most  sensitive  region,  the  chest  and 
upper  arm,  or  velvet  tunics  that  do  not  reach  to  the 
shivering  little  knees) — take  them  to  children's  parties, 
where  they  must  necessarily  encounter  chills,  which  to 
the  young  are  absolute  death,  and  eat  food  which  to 
their  tender  stomachs  is  all  but  poison.  There  they 
stay  in  a  heated  room  or  in  draughty  passages,  sitting 
up  till  their  innocent  eyes  are  shutting  with  sleep,  or 
blazing  with  feverish  and  premature  excitement,  till 
ten,  eleven,  and  even  twelve  o'clock,  and  then  are  car- 

C 


50  OUK   OFTEN    INFIRMITIES. 

ried  off  to  bed.  Next  morning  the  parents  wonder  that 
poor  little  Tommy  is  cross,  or  Mary  ill,  or  that  Lucy 
and  Charlie  can  not  attend  to  their  lessons  as  they 
ought  to  do.  How  should  they  ?  Wholesome  amuse- 
ment— and  plenty  of  it — is  essential  at  all  ages ;  and 
children's  society  most  beneficial  to  children  ;  but  that 
pitiful  imitation  of  the  "  show  "  society  now  cultivated 
by  fashionable  elders,  which  is  slowly  drifting  down- 
ward to  corrupt  the  children,  ought  to  be  resisted  by 
wise  parents  with  all  their  might.  Not  merely  on 
moral,  but  on  simply  physical  grounds.  Any  person 
who  gives  or  goes  to  ordinary  "  children's  parties  "  of 
this  sort  is,  I  think,  guilty  of  a  wholesale  massacre  of 
the  innocents.  Worse  than  massacre  —  slow  murder ; 
for  such  entertainments  lay  the  foundations  of  half  the 
infirmities  of  which  I  write,  which  sap  the  very  springs 
of  life,  and  embitter  all  its  enjoyments. 

If  our  parents  sin  against  us  in  our  childhood,  how  often 
do  we  sin  against  ourselves  in  youth — that  daring  youth, 
which  thinks  it  will  always  last,  and  resents  the  slightest 
interference  with  its  whims  or  its  privileges?  It  will 
have  what.it  likes,  at  any  cost.  What  an  endless  and 
thankless  task  it  is  to  represent  to  a  young  girl  the  com- 
mon-sense fact  that  to  put  on  her  warm  jacket  or  water- 
proof cloak,  a  sensible  hat  for  her  head,  and  a  stout  pair 
of  boots  for  her  feet,  and  go  cheerily  out,  even  on  the 
wettest  or  coldest  day,  will  do  her  no  harm,  but  good ; 


OUR   OFTEN   INFIRMITIES.  51 

bring  the  roses  to  her  cheeks  and  the  sunshine  to  her 
spirit ;  whereas  to  cower  over  the  fire  in  a  warm  woolen 
dress,  and  then  undress  herself  for  a  ball — to  dance  till 
she  is  heated  and  exhausted,  and  then  go  and  sit  on  the 
stairs  or  by  an  open  window  to  cool  herself — is  more 
than  folly — it  is  insanity.  But  you,  poor  mother  or  aunt, 
might  talk  yourself  hoarse;  she  will  not  listen.  The 
one  thing  she  likes,  the  other  she  does  not  like;  and 
therefore  she  does  the  first,  and  will  not  do  the  second. 

Young  men,  also,  they  will  go  their  own  way ;  sow 
their  wild  oats — and  reap  them.  I  do  not  speak  of  ex- 
treme cases  of  reckless  dissipation,  upon  which  retribu- 
tion follows  only  too  swift  and  sure,  but  of  small  dissi- 
pations, petty  sins.  A  young  fellow  will  dance  till  four 
in  the  morning  several  times  a  week,  when  he  knows 
that  every  day  in  the  week  he  must  be  at  his  office  at 
nine — and  is,  being  an  honest  fellow  who  wishes  to  get 
on  in  the  world.  But  he  does  not  consider  how  much 
he  takes  out  of  himself  in  life  and  health  and  strength ; 
and  sometimes  out  of  his  master's  pocket  too;  for,  with 
the  best  intentions,  he  can  not  possibly  do  his  work  as 
well  as  it  ought  to  be  done.  But  he,  too,  does  what  he 
likes  best  to  do,  and  deludes  himself  that  it  is  the  best ; 
and  all  the  arguments  in  the  world  will  never  convince 
him  to  the  contrary. 

No  more  will  they  convince  those  other  sinners — 
whose  sin  looks  so  like  virtue — the  clever  men  who  kill 


52  OUE   OFTEN    INFIRMITIES. 

themselves  with  overstudy ;  the  ambitious  men  who  sac- 
rifice every  thing  to  the  mad  desire  of  getting. on  in 
the  world;  of  being — not  better  or  wiser  or  greater — 
but  merely  richer  than  their  neighbors. 

To  do  work  for  work's  sake,  moderately,  levelly,  ra- 
tionally, so  as  to  preserve  the  power  of  doing  it  for  the 
longest  term  that  nature  allows — this,  the  noblest  aim  a 
man  can  start  with,  becomes  often  swamped  in  the  ig- 
noble one  of  working  merely  to  be  superior  to  some- 
body else.  Thus  many  a  man  who  has  earned,  or  is 
earning,  enough  to  live  comfortably,  and  bring  up  his 
children  \vell  —  and  sufficiently  well  off,  too,  to  begin 
with  a  fair  start  where  their  father  did — goes  on  slav- 
ing and  toiling,  his  wife  aiding  and  abetting  him,  in  or- 
der to  maintain  them  in  the  luxury  to  which  he  has  ris- 
en. A  paternal  devotion  which  has  its  touching  phase ; 
and  yet  it  is  as  blind  as  it  is  foolish.  The  children 
would  be  much  better  left  to  make  their  own  way,  and 
earn  their  own  bread,  like  their  father  before  them. 
And  the  father  himself,  by  the  time  he  has  accumulated 
the  thirty,  forty,  or  fifty  thousand  which  he  has  gradu- 
ally learned  to  consider  essential  to  happiness — she,  sly 
jade  !  has  slipped  away  from  him.  lie  catches  her,  but 
she  is  like  the  crushed  butterfly  that  his  boys  catch  un- 
der their  caps;  all  her  beauty  is  gone.  Utterly  worn 
out  with  work,  he  can  neither  enjoy  life  himself  nor 
give  enjoyment  to  other  people.  The  strain  of  occupa- 


OUR   OFTEN   INFIRMITIES.  53 

tion  gone,  his  weariness  becomes  intolerable.  The  irri- 
tability that  an  overtasked  body  and  mind  superinduces 
in  most  men,  makes  him,  not  a  delight,  but  an  actual  nui- 
sance in  his  family.  Those  "  often  infirmities  "  which  he 
had  once  no  time  to  think  much  about,  now  rise  up  like 
ghosts  of  the  murdered  to  torment  him  wherever  he  goes. 
His  handsome  house,  his  country  leisure  or  town  pleas- 
ure, his  abundance  of  friends,  and  his  flourishing  fam- 
ily, are  to  him  no  comfort,  no  resource.  He  has  burned 
the  candle  at  both  ends,  and  now  there  is  no  light  left 
in  it;  it  just  flickers  a  while,  and  then — drops  out. 

I  ask  earnestly,  Is  this  picture  overdrawn  ?  Do  I  not 
paint  the  likeness  —  not  of  one,  but  of  hundreds  —  of 
rich  men  among  our  acquaintance  in  this  "  golden  age  ?" 
Midas  himself  could  not  have  more  bitterly  applied  the 
word.  The  old  king  of  fable,  whose  touch  turned  every 
thing  to  gold,  was  not  more  wretched  than  some  of  our 
would-be  millionaires. 

For  what  is  the  use  of  money  ?  Simply  to  be  used ; 
to  gain  a  certain  amount  of  bodily  comfort,  for  which 
the  poor  failing  body  is,  as  it  gets  older,  only  too  thank- 
ful; and  an  equal  share  of  intellectual  pleasures  and 
tastes,  which  money  only  can  fully  supply.  Beyond 
that  no  man  can  spend,  or  ought  to  spend,  upon  him- 
self. And  even  this,  carefully  employed,  will  always 
leave  a  large  margin  for  the  keenest  pleasure  of  all— 
•the  money  that  is  spent  upon  other  people. 


54:  OUE   OFTEN   INFIRMITIES. 

Idleness  may  be  a  great  folly,  but  overwork,  to  no  no- 
bler end  than  to  get  rich,  is  a  great  crime.  And  the 
men  who  commit  it,  and  the  women  who  encourage  them 
in  it,  deserve  all  they  get,  in  the  secret  miseries  that  un- 
derlie all  their  splendors.  What  these  are  they  know. 
The  indigestions  of  their  dinner-parties,  the  weariness 
of  their  balls,  the  worry  of  their  servants,  the  rivalries 
of  their  neighbors.  Who  that  looks  at  them  as  sitting, 
pallid  and  cross,  in  their  grand  carriages,  or  watches  the 
discontent  into  which  their  bland  dinner-table  face  falls 
the  moment  the  smile  is  off  it,  or  notices  the  scarcely 
veiled  relief  of  the  polite  adieu  with  which  such  an  en- 
tertainment is  ended — "  and  a  good  thing  it's  over,"  say 
both  host  and  guest  in  their  secret  hearts — who  that 
takes  quiet  heed  of  all  this  can  help  feeling  that  such 
magnificence  has  cost  very  dear  1  Le  jeu  ne  vaut  pas 
la  chandelle.  The  paradise  may  be  fair  enough  outside, 
but  "  the  trail  of  the  serpent  is  over  it  all." 

This,  without  any  complaints  about  "  this  poor  dying 
world,"  or  the  wickedness  of  the  people  that  are  in  it. 
It  is  a  good  world,  a  happy  world.  God  meant  it  to  be 
happy.  It  is  man  only  who  makes  it  miserable.  For 
one  half — perhaps  nearly  the  whole — of  these  often  in- 
firmities which  torment  us  so,  Nature  is  not  accountable; 
Nature,  always  a  wise  and  tender  mother  to  those  who 
follow  her  dictates  in  the  simplest  way.  For  instance, 
who  will  deny  that  a  number  of  those  illnesses  which 


OUR   OFTEN    INFIRMITIES.  55 

we  suffer  from  year  by  year,  are  absolutely  preventable 
illnesses  ? 

The  common  answer  to  that  commonest  of  moans,  "  I 
have  such  a  bad  cold" — "Dear  me!  How  did  you 
catch  iU" — often  makes  us  cross  enough.  As  if  it 
could  be  any  consolation  to  our  sufferings  to  investigate 
how  we  got  them.  But  the  remark  is  not  so  ridiculous 
as  it  seems.  It  would  be  a  curious  and  useful  register 
of  personal  statistics  if  we  were  to  count  how  many  of 
our  illnesses  we  bring  on  ourselves  by  neglect  of  those 
common  sanitary  laws  which  can  never  be  broken  with 
impunity.  Men  of  science,  half  of  whom  allege  that 
nature  is  all  benign,  the  other  half  that  she  is  wholly 
cruel,  seem  to  be  both  right  and  both  wrong.  She  is 
neither  kind  nor  cruel ;  she  is  only  just.  She — or  a 
higher  Power  through  her — lays  down  laws,  which,  so 
far  as  we  see,  are  laws  for  the  general  good  ;  they  must 
be  obeyed,  and  by  all,  or  all  suffer ;  and  neither  God 
nor  nature  can  prevent  this  suffering. 

Thus  some  illnesses  are  not  preventable.  They  come 
to  us  apparently  "by  the  visitation  of  God,"  from  no 
cause  at  all ;  that  is,  from  recondite  causes,  too  remote 
for  us  either  to  detect  or  guard  against,  but  no  doubt 
also  the  result  of  broken  laws.  We  can  but  try  to  dis- 
cover these  laws,  so  as  to  obey  them  better  another  time. 
But  a  large  number  of  our  lesser  ailments  are  entirely 
our  own  fault.  We  can  trace  in  them  cause  and  effect 


56  CUE   OFTEN    INFIRMITIES. 

as  plainly  as  that  two  and  two  make  four.  That  severe 
bronchitis  which  attacked  us,  because  in  the  brilliant 
March  sunshine  and  fierce  east  wind  we  put  off  our 
slightly  shabby  winter  jacket  in  favor  of  more  spring- 
like attire.  That  horrible  sick  headache,  which  we 
know  as  well  as  possible  will  follow  after  eating  certain 
foods  or  drinking  certain  wines;  yet  we  can  no  more 
resist  either  than  our  infant  boy  can  resist  clutching  at 
the  lighted  candle,  or  our  drunken  cabman  at  the  gin- 
bottle.  We  call  the  child  an  "  ignorant  baby,"  the 
drunkard  "  a  fool ;"  yet  in  what  are  we  better  than 
they  ?  For  the  sake  of  petty  vanity,  or  still  more  petty 
table-indulgence,  we  have  punished  ourselves,  and  tor- 
mented our  whole  family.  The  sickness  which  comes 
direct  from  heaven  deserves  all  sympathy  and  tender- 
ness; that  brought  on  by  mere  folly  or  weak  self-in- 
dulgence, though  it  is  obliged  to  be  nursed  and  cared 
for,  is  done  so  with  a  compassion  bordering  on  con- 
tempt. 

Yes,  even  though  we  call  our  errors  by  grand  names, 
and  almost  boast  of  them — "  I  never  take  care  of  my- 
self ;"  "  I  can't  be  bothered  with  my  health ;"  "  What 
does  it  matter  to  me  if  I  am  ill  ?"  are  the  remarks  one 
constantly  hears,  especially  from  the  young,  just  old 
enough  to  shirk  authority  and  resent  interference, 
but  still  seeing  only  in  the  dim  distance  that  dark 
time  which  must  come,  sooner  or  later,  when  for 


(H'l:     ol'TKN      INKIUMITIES.  57 

every  ill-usage  it  has  received  the  body  avenges  itself 
tenfold. 

Does  it  not  matter  indeed  ? — the  extra  labor  thrown 
on  a  whole  family  when  one  member  is  ill  ?  the  heart- 
ache of  parents, the  perplexity  and  distress  of  friends,  tho 
serious  annoyance — to  put  no  stronger  word — thai,  in- 
valids always  are  in  a  household  ?  If,  as  to  our  would- 
be  suicides,  the  law  of  the  laud,  oven  when  it 
them  from  the  river  half  drowned  or  cuts  them  down 
half  hanged,  sentences  them  to  remorseless  punishment, 
should  there  not  be  found  also  some  fitting  condemna- 
tion for  those  who  commit  the  slow  suicide  of  ruined, 
health,  for  no  cause  but  their  own  gratification  ? 

One  of  the  worst  forms  of  these  is  so  countenanced 
by  society  that  he  is  a  bold  man  who  would  lift.  Ms 
voice  against  it ;  I  mean  the  present  system  of  dinner- 
parties. And  yet  there  can  be  no  doubt  that  if  it  does 
not  kill  wholesale, it  injures  the  average  constitutions  of 
wliat  we  call  the  "  hotter  classes,"  and  causes  them  dys- 
peptic and  oilier  torments  to  an  extent  worse  perhaps 
than  even  the  hunger  or  the  half-feeding  which  the 
poor  have  to  fight  against.  Nobody  likes  to  be  called 
a  glutton  or  a  gourmand,  yet  the  ordinary  dinner 
or  diner-OUt  of  the  pre-ent,  day  will  find  con;-ider;iMc, 
dittir.ult.y  in  preventing  himself  from  heeomin^;  a  lit  lie 
of  both. 

Now   a  good  dinner   is  an    excellent   thin;/.      A    renllv 

02 


58  OUE   OFTEN   INFIRMITIES. 

elegant  dinner,  well  cooked,  well  served,  with  tasteful 
accompaniments  of  every  kind,  and  with  a  moderate 
number  of  pleasant  people  to  enjoy  it,  is  a  most  delight- 
ful thing.  It  is  right  that  those  who  can  afford  it 
should  give  such,  replete  with  "  every  delicacy  of  the 
season :"  the  best  food,  the  best  wine,  the  most  artistic,' 
and  beautiful  table  arrangements,  and  in  sufficient 
quantity  to  satisfy  the  guests.  Sufficient  time  also 
should  be  allowed  fairly  to  enjoy  the  meal ;  taking  it 
leisurely,  and  seasoning  it  with  that  cheerful  conversa- 
tion which  is  said  to  help  digestion.  In  truth,  there 
can  not  be  a  pleasanter  sight  than  an  honest,  honorable 
man,  at  the  head  of  his  own  hospitable  board,  looking 
down  two  lines  of  happy-looking  friends,  whom  he  is 
sincerely  glad  to  welcome,  and  who  are  glad  in  return 
to  give  him,  according  to  the  stereotyped  phrase,  "  the 
pleasure  of  their  company,"  which  really  is  a  pleasure, 
and  without  which  the  grandest  banquets  are  weariness 
inexpressible.  But  the  dinner  should  be  subservient  to 
the  guests,  not  the  guests  to  the  dinner ;  and  every  meal, 
be  it  simple  or  splendid,  is  worthless  altogether  unless 
eaten,  as  a  good  Christian  has  it, "  in  gladness  and  single- 
ness of  heart."  Such  a  meal,  taken  among  friends  and 
neighbors,  with  the  faces  of  those  you  love  or  like,  or 
even  only  admire,  gathered  around  you,  not  too  many 
of  them,  nor  for  too  long  a  time,  and  moving  early  into 
the  drawing-room,  to  pass  a  social  evening  in  con  versa- 


OUR   OFTEN    INFIRMITIES.  59 

tion  or  music — such  a  feast  is  truly  a  feast :  the  ideal 
dinner-party,  which  does  no  harm  to  any  one,  and  to 
many  a  great  deal  of  good. 

But  the  ordinary  "  dinner-party "  is  eighteen  or 
twenty  people  chosen  at  random,  without  any  regard  to 
their  suiting  one  another,  sitting  down  to  eat  and  drink 
without  intermission  for  from  two  to  three  hours,  say 
from  half-past  seven  or  eight  till  nearly  ten.  A  "feed" 
lasting  so  long  that  however  small  may  be  the  bits  you 
put  into  the  unhappy  stomach,  it  is  kept  working  on  at 
the  process  of  digestion  till  its  powers  are  thoroughly 
exhausted.  And,  eating  over,  drinking  begins. 

I  beg  pardon  —  nobody  ever  "drinks"  nowadays. 
And,  of  course,  nobody  is  so  vulgar  as  to  overeat  him- 
self. That  enormity  is  left  to  the  workhouse  boy  over 
his  Christmas  plum-pudding,  or  the  charity  girl  at  a 
school  tea.  Nevertheless  one  sometimes  sees,  even  in 
elegant  drawing-rooms,  gentlemen  enter  with  fishy  eyes, 
and  talk,  not  too  brilliantly,  to  ladies  with  flushed  cheeks 
and  weary  smiles.  Sometimes  one  would  like  to  whis- 
per, "  My  dear  friends,  you  don't  know  it ;  but  have 
you  not  both  eaten  and  drank  a  little  more  than  was 
good  for  you  ?  You  would  have  felt  much  better  and 
happier  after  a  simple,  short  dinner,  which — instead  of 
the  fifteen  minutes  that  you  stand  sipping  your  tea,  and 
wondering  if  your  carriage  is  come — left  you  an-  hour 
or  two  to  spend  a  pleasant,  sociable  evening.  Has  it 


60  OUR   OFTEN    INFIEMITIES. 

been  pleasant  ?  Have  you  really  enjoyed  yourself  ? 
How  do  you  feel  after  it  ?  And  how  do  you  think 
you  will  feel  to -morrow  morning?" 

Ah,  that  to-morrow  morning  !  especially  to  those  who 
have  to  work  with  their  brains,  and  in  London,  apart 
from  the  wholesome  country  life,  which  neutralizes  so 
many  evils.  "  I  can't  dine  out,"  has  said  to  me  more 
than  one  learned  or  literary  man,  or  agreeable  homme 
de  societe  whom  dinner -givers  would  give  the  world 
to  get.  "It  is  absolute  death  to  me  —  or  dyspepsia, 
which  is  only  a  slow  death  to  all  one's  faculties,  and 
perhaps  one's  moral  nature  too,  for  your  dyspeptic  is 
usually  the  most  ill-tempered  and  disagreeable  fellow 
going.  And  yet  I  am  neither  a  glutton  nor  a  wine- 
bibber.  I  like  a  good  dinner,  and  I  like  to  eat  it  in 
company  with  my  fellow-creatures.  But  according  to 
the  present  system  of  dinner-parties,  I  can't  do  it  with- 
out absolute  injury  to  myself:  hindering  my  work,  af- 
fecting my  health,  and  bringing  on  all  sorts  of  infirmi- 
ties that  a  man  likes  to  steer  clear  of  as  long  as  he  can." 

Yes,  if  he  have  the  strength  of  will  to  do  it.  But  not 
every  man  has,  or  woman  either.  Few  people  practice 
that  golden  rule  of  health — I  think  it  was  Luigi  Corna- 
ro's: — "  Always  rise  from  table  feeling  that  you  could 
take  a  little  bit  more."  Yet  if  we  did  practice  it,  with 
another  very  simple  rule — to  eat  always  regularly,  at  the 
same  hour  and  as  nearly  as  possible  the  same  quantity 


OUR   OFTEN   INFIEMTTIES.  61 

of  food — not  doubling  the  quantity  because  it  happens 
to  be  "  nice " — we  should  soon  lessen  amazingly  our 
often  infirmities. 

Prevention  is  better  than  cure,  and  in  most  small  ail- 
ments there  can  not  be  a  safer  physic  than  abstinence. 
Abstinence  from  overfood,  overwork.  How  persistent- 
ly we  shut  our  eyes  to  the  beginnings  of  disease,  begin- 
nings so  trifling  that  we  hardly  notice  them,  until  they 
end  in  that  premature  decay  which  seems  now  only  too 
common  among  our  best  and  greatest  men,  and  those 
whom  the  world  can  least  spare.  People  rush  to  doc- 
tors to  cure  them  ;  they  never  think  of  curing  them- 
selves by  putting  a  stop  to  exciting  causes  of  ill- 
health.  As  a  wise  old  woman  said  to  a  very  foolish 
young  one,  who  brought  her  a  heap  of  feeble  manu- 
scripts to  look  over  and  try  to  sell,  on  the  pitiful  plea 
that  she  must  have  money  in  order  to  pay  for  her  medi- 
cine and  her  wine :  "  My  dear,  stop  the  wine  and  stop 
the  medicine,  and  then  you  will  be  able  to  stop  the 
writing  also,  which  will  be  much  the  better  for  both 
yourself  and  the  public." 

The  selfishness  of  people  who  will  not  stop,  who  go 
on  indulging  their  luxurious,  careless,  or  studious  habits, 
until  they  make  themselves  confirmed  invalids,  an  anxi- 
ety and  a  torment  to  those  about  them,  can  not  be  too 
strongly  reprobated.  Aye,  even  though  it  takes  the 
form  of  a  noble  indifference  to  self,  in  pursuit  of  knowl- 


62  OUK   OFTEN   INFIRMITIES. 

edge,  wealth,  ambition ;  any  of  the  pretty  disguises  in 
which  we  wrap  up  the  thing  we  like  to  do,  and  make 
believe  to  other  people,  often  almost  to  ourselves,  that  it 
is  the  very  thing  we  ought  to  do. 

And  here  I  must  dwell  a  moment  on  a  case  in  point, 
the  right  and  wrong  of  which  is  sometimes  exceedingly 
difficult  to  define — how  far  it  is  allowable  to  run  risks 
of  infectious  diseases. 

Formerly  very  good  people  regarded  plague  and  pes- 
tilence as  coming  direct  from  the  hand  of  God,  which 
it  was  useless — nay,  worse,  irreligious — to  fight  against. 
I  have  heard  sensible  and  excellent  persons  say  calmly, 
as  a  reason  for  going,  quite  unnecessarily,  into  a  fever- 
stricken  house,  "  Oh,  I  am  not  afraid ;  if  it  is  the  will 
of  the  Lord  for  me  to  catch  it,  I  shall  catch  it ;  if  not,  I 
am  safe." 

Most  true  ;  in  fact  the  merest  truism,  like  pious  folks' 
habit  of  writing  D.Y.,  Deo  volente,  about  any  thing 
they  intend  to  do,  as  if  they  could  possibly  do  it  with- 
out the  will  of  God  !  But  is  it  the  will  of  God  that 
infection  should  be  spread  from  house  to  house  by  these 
well-meaning  individuals,  who  may  indeed  escape  them- 
selves, but  can  never  tell  how  much  misery  they  are 
bringing  on  other  people  ? 

Modern  science  has  found  out  that,  like  many  other 
physical  woes,  epidemic  or  contagious  diseases  are  prin- 
cipally owing  to  ourselves,  our  own  errors  or  careless- 


OUR    OFTEN    INFIRMITIES.  63 

nesses,  not  the  will  of  God  at  all ;  that  He  has  provided 
certain  antidotes  or  remedies  against  them,  and  those 
who  neglect  or  refuse  these  lay  themselves  under  the 
lash  of  His  righteous  punishments,  nor  can  they  com- 
plain of  any  suffering  that  follows. 

Infectious  diseases  may  be  almost  always  put  under 
the  category  of  preventable  evils,  and  it  is  the  duty  of 
all  truly  religious  persons  to  help  the  Almighty,  so  to 
speak — that  is,  to  make  themselves  His  instruments  in 
stamping  out  evil  wherever  they  find  it.  Aye,  even 
though  it  may  be  after  His  own  mysterious  way,  as  we 
sometimes  see  it,  or  fancy  we  do,  of  sacrificing  the  few 
to  the  many. 

Disease  must  be  stamped  out,  and  its  circle  of  misery 
narrowed  as  much  as  possible,  even  at  cost  of  individual 
feeling.  The  primary  thought  of  every  person  attacked 
by  an  infectious  illness  ought  to  be,  "  Let  me  harm  as 
few  people  as  I  can."  There  is  something  particularly 
heroic  in  the  story  of  the  East-end  clergyman  who,  dis- 
covering that  he  had  caught  small -pox,  resolutely  re- 
fused to  go  home,  would  not  even  enter  a  cab  which 
was  brought  to  take  him  to  the  hospital,  but,  hailing  a 
hearse  passing  by,  crept  into  that,  and  so  was  carried 
safely  to  the  safe  hospital  door. 

He  was  a  noble  instance,  this  man,  of  that  prudence 
which  is  compatible  with  the  utmost  courage,  the  deep- 
est self-devotion,  that  benevolent  caution  which  sees 


64:  OUR   OFTEN    INFIRMITIES. 

other  people's  rights  as  clearly  as  its  own.  How  differ- 
ent from  a  certain  affectionate  mother  who,  when  an- 
other mother  hesitated  to  enter  a  railway  carriage  full 
of  children  because  her  little  boy  was  recovering  from 
measles,  answered,  "  Oh,  how  kind  of  you  to  tell  me ! 
for  my  little  folks  here  have  only  just  got  through  scar- 
let-fever, and  suppose  they  had  caught  measles  on  the 
top  of  that  ?"  But  it  never  occurred  to  her  to  prevent 
somebody  else's  little  boy  from  catching  scarlet-fever 
on  the  top  of  measles. 

Absolute  justice,  beyond  even  sympathy,  and  far  be- 
yond sentimental  feeling  of  any  kind,  should  be  the  rule 
of  all  who  have  to  do  with  infection ;  their  one  promi- 
nent thought  how  to  narrow  its  fatal  work  within  the 
smallest  possible  bounds.  Doctors,  nurses,  and  those 
friends  and  relations  who  are  naturally  in  charge  of  the 
sick,  must  take  their  lives  in  their  hands,  do  their  duty, 
and  trust  God  for  the  rest.  And  happily  there  is  sel- 
dom any  lack  of  such :  brave  physicians,  who,  having 
voluntarily  entered  a  profession  which  involves  so  much 
risk  to  them  and  theirs,  carry  it  out  unflinchingly;  nurses, 
who  to  their  own  people  or  to  strangers,  for  love  or  for 
charity,  which  means  for  God,  devote  themselves  open- 
eyed  to  a  righteous  self-sacrifice.  But  there  it  should 
end.  Every  one  who  heedlessly  or  unnecessarily,  for 
bravado  or  through  thoughtlessness,  or  even  from  mis- 
taken pious  zeal,  goes  in  the  way  of  infection,  or  helps 


OUR   OFTEN    INFIRMITIES.  65 

in  the  spread  of  it,  commits  a  crime  against  society, 
which  society  can  not  too  strongly  protect  itself  from. 

When  I  see  rabid  religionists  carrying  handfuls  of 
tracts  into  reeking,  typhus-doomed  cottages,  where  they 
ought  first  to  have  carried  food  and  clothes,  or,  better 
still,  have  leveled  them  with  the  ground  and  built  up  in 
their  stead  wholesome  dwellings;  when  I  hear  clergy- 
men with  young  families,  and  going  daily  into  other  fam- 
ilies and  schools,  protest  that  it  is '"  their  duty  "  to  enter 
infected  houses  in  order  to  administer  spiritual  consola- 
tion to  people  dying  of  small-pox  or  scarlet-fever,  I  look 
upon  them  much  as  I  would  upon  a  man  who  thought 
it  "  his  duty  "  to  carry  a  lighted  candle  into  a  coal-mine. 
Nothing  may  happen ;  but  if  any  thing  does  happen, 
what  of  him  who  caused  the  disaster  by  his  fatal  folly 
—misnamed  faith  ?  As  if  "  salvation  "  did  not  mean  a 
saving  from  sin  rather  than  from  punishment;  and, 
therefore,  though  men's  souls  may  be  in  our  hands  dur- 
ing life,  they  must  be  left  solely  in  God's  when  death 
comes — -and  after.  These  so-called  religious  persons 
are  apparently  much  more  bent  upon  doing  their  own 
will  in  their  own  way  than  the  Master's  in  His  way. 
For  the  will  of  God,  so  far  as  we  can  trace  it  through 
His  manifestation  of  Himself  in  His  Son,  seems  to  be 
the  prevention  and  cure  of  not  only  moral  but  physical 
evil  by  every  possible  means,  prior  to  its  total  extinction. 

Either  Christ's  doctrine  is  true  or  it  is  not ;  but  even 


66  OUR   OFTEN   INFIEMITIES. 

those  who  aver  that  it  is  not  true  often  mournfully  ac- 
knowledge that  it  ought  to  be — that  we  should  be  better 
if  it  were  true.  And  He  did  not  despise  the  body.  He 
held  it  to  be  the  "  temple  of  the  Holy  Spirit."  Asceti- 
cism was  as  far  from  Him  as  was  luxurious  living.  He 
went  about,  not  only  teaching,  but  doing  good — practi- 
cal good.  Before  Pie  attempted  to  preach  to  the  multi- 
tudej  He  fed  them,  remembering  that  "  divers  of  them 
came  from  far."  When  He  raised  from  the  dead  Jai- 
rus's  daughter,  He  "  commanded  that  something  should 
be  given  her  to  eat."  And  in  revisiting  His  forlorn 
disciples,  His  first  tender  words  were, "  Children,  have 
ye  any  meat  ?"  In  no  way,  from  the  beginning  to  the 
end  of  His  ministry,  does  He  disregard  or  despise  those 
bodily  infirmities  which  we  may  conclude  He  shared, 
though  how  much  or  how  little  we  can  never  know. 

One  fact,  however,  is  noteworthy  —  He  never  com- 
plained of  them.  At  least  the  only  record  we  have  of 
any  murmur  from  His  lips  was  made  solely  to  His  Fa- 
ther :  "  Let  this  cup  pass  from  me  " — followed  quickly 
by  the  acceptation  of  it — "  Not  my  will,  but  Thine  be 
done."  A  lesson  to  us,  who  are  so  prone  to  grumble 
over  the  most  trifling  of  our  infirmities,  the  least  of  our 
aches  and  pains ;  so  ready  to  blame  every  body  for  them, 
except  ourselves ;  to  rush  for  cure  to  every  doctor  we 
hear  of,  instead  of  trusting  to  our  own  common-sense, 
self-restraint,  and,  when  all  else  fails,  that  quiet  patience 


OUR   OFTEN    INFIRMITIES.  67 

which  at  least  never  inflicts  its  own  sufferings  upon  its 
neighbors. 

Christ  did  not— not  to  the  very  end.  When  dying 
the  most  torturing  of  deaths,  it  was  His  mother  and  His 
brethren  that  He  thought  of,  not  Himself.  And  so  it 
is  with  many  a  sick  and  dying  person,  who  in  life  has 
been  a  humble  follower  of  Him. 

Strange  how  in  these  sermons,  professedly  "out  of 
Church" — holding  up  the  banner  of  no  set  creed — ap- 
pealing especially  to  those  who  say  they  believe  none, 
and  refuse  to  accept  any  foregone  conclusions,  or  take 
any  thing  granted  in  the  "  science  of  theology  "  so  called 
— as  if  any  finite  being  could  learn  the  Infinite  as  he 
learns  astronomy  or  mathematics ! — it  is  strange,  I  say, 
how  continually  I  find  myself  recurring  to  Christ  and 
His  teaching ;  which,  whatever  be  the  facts  or  misrep- 
resentations of  His  personal  history,  shines  out  clearly 
after  the  mists  of  nearly  nineteen  hundred  years  as  the 
only  perfect  righteousness  the  world  ever  saw:  a  stand- 
ard which,  consciously  or  unconsciously,  all  righteous 
souls  instinctively  recognize. 

It  is  easy  for  people  to  say  they  do  not  believe  in 
Christianity — that  is,  in  its  corruptions ;  but  the  spirit 
of  it  has  so  permeated  our  modern  world  that  many  a 
fierce  skeptic  is  a  good  Christian  without  knowing  it. 
He  can  deny,  but  he  can  not  get  away  from  the  influ- 
ence of  that  divine  morality  which  Christians  recognize 


68  OUR   OFTEN   INFIRMITIES. 

as  their  Sun  of  Righteousness.  It  may  not  shine — mists 
may  obscure  it,  so  that  one  is  prone  to  doubt  its  very 
existence ;  but  without  it,  daylight  would  not  be  there. 

I  am  wandering  a  little  from  my  subject,  and  yet  not 
far ;  since  what  comfort  is  there,  except  in  such  thoughts 
as  these,  when  the  dark  time  comes  which  must  come 
to  us  all — when  our  infirmities  are  not  "  often,"  but  con- 
tinual ?  How  shall  we  bear  them  ?  How  shall  we  meet 
that  heavy  season,  when — as  I  lately  heard  one  lady  an- 
swer to  another  who  was  saying  she  felt  better  than  she 
had  done  for  years — "  Ah,  my  dear,  but  I  shall  never 
feel  better  any  more." 

Not  very  wonderful,  considering  the  sufferer  was  sev- 
enty-six; yet  she  evidently  felt  it  a  great  hardship,  a 
cruel  wrong.  Even  then  she  could  not  reconcile  her- 
self to  old  age,  to  the  gradual  slipping  off  of  the  worn 
garment,  meant  tenderly,  I  think,  as  nature's  prepa- 
ration for  the  putting  of  it  off  altogether,  and  being 
clothed  afresh  with  something,  we  know  not  what,  ex- 
cept that  it  will  be  altogether  new. 

A  hard  time  this  to  many:  when  all  the  sins  they 
ever  committed  against  their  bodies  —  and  you  may 
sin  against  your  body  just  as  fatally  as  you  sin  against 
your  soul — rise  up  in  judgment  against  them.  The 
season  when  we  begin  to  feel  that  we  are  really  grow- 
ing old,  and  that  every  body  sees  it,  but  is  too  polite  to 
say  so,  or  tries  to  gloss  it  under  the  unmeaning  remark, 


OUR   OFTEN   INFIRMITIES.  69 

"  How  young  you  look !" — indicating  that  we  can  not 
reasonably  be  expected  to  look  young  any  longer.  This 
is  as  painful  a  phrase  as  any  our  life  goes  through — 
more  painful,  I  think,  than  absolute  old  age,  which 
gradually  becomes  as  conceited  over  its  many  years  as 
youth  is  over  its  few  ones. 

Still  I  can  not  believe  but  that  it  is  possible,  by 
extra  care  at  the  beginning  of  decay,  to  avoid  its  sad- 
dest infirmities,  and  to  make  senility  a  comparatively 
painless  thing  —  free  from  many  of  those  weaknesses 
and  unpleasantnesses  which  cause  so  many  unselfish 
people  to  say  honestly  they  never  wash  to  live  to  be 
old. 

For  instance,  how  few  recognize  the  very  simple  and 
obvious  truth,  that  as  the  machinery  of  digestion  be- 
gins to  wear  out,  it  is  advisable  to  give  it  a  little  less 
work  to  do.  A  meal  from  which  a  young  man  would 
rise  up  hungry  is  quite  sufficient  for  the  needs  of  a 
man  of  seventy,  and  better  for  him  than  more.  The 
healthiest,  most  active,  and  most  happy-minded  of  old 
people,  I  have  always  found  to  be  those  who  were  ex- 
ceedingly moderate  in  their  food ;  eating  less  and  less 
every  year,  instead  of,  according  to  the  common  fallacy, 
more  and  more.  And  they  who  have  longest  retained 
their  hold  on  life  and  its  enjoyments  have  been  those 
who  in  all  their  habits  have  gradually  gone  back  to  the 
simplicity  of  childhood.  Indeed,  it  seems  as  if  nature, 


TO  OUR   OFTEN   INFIRMITIES. 

when  we  do  not  foolishly  resist  her  or  interfere  with 
her,  would  fain  bring  us  back  quietly  to  all  the  tastes, 
pleasures,  and  wants  of  our  earliest  youth  —  its  inno- 
cent interests,  its  entire  but  not  necessarily  painful  or 
humiliating  dependence  ;  would  give  us,  in  short,  a  lit- 
tle tender  rock  in  our  second  cradle  before  she  lays  us 
in  the  grave. 

And  this,  if  we  could  only  see  it,  is  good  for  us,  and 
equally  good  for  those  who  have  to  do  it  for  us.  It  is 
well  for  the  younger  generation  to  see  how  contentedly 
wre  can  loose  our  hold  upon  that  world  which  is  slow- 
ly sliding  from  us.  Though,  unlike  them,  we  can  no 
longer  work  all  day  and  dance  all  night ;  though  we 
require  every  year  more  care,  more  regularity  of  hours 
and  meals,  more  sleep — at  all  events  more  rest ;  can  by 
no  means  play  tricks  with  ourselves,  for  any  excuse 
either  of  amusement  or  labor;  are  perhaps  obliged  to 
spend  one  half  the  day  in  peaceful  seclusion,  or  equally 
peaceful  endurance  of  pain,  in  order  to  qualify  our- 
selves for  being  cheerful  with  those  we  love  for  the 
other  half ;  still  life  is  not  yet  a  burden  to  us,  and  we 
try  to  be  as  little  of  a  burden  as  possible  to  those  about 
us.  We  have  had  our  day ;  we  will  not  grudge  them 
theirs. 

I  can  not  imagine  an  old  age  like  this  to  be  a  sad 
or  undesirable  thing.  Infirmities  it  may  have  —  must 
have ;  but  they  need  not  be  overwhelming,  if  the  fail- 


ol  It    OFTEN    INFIRMITIES.  71 

ing  body  has  been  treated,  and  is  still  treated,  with  that 
amount  of  respect  which  is  its  due.  And  at  worst,  per- 
haps bodily  sufferings  are  not  harder  to  bear  than  the 
horrible  mental  struggles  of  youth,  with  its  selfish  agony 
of  passion  and  pain  ;  or  than  the  vicarious  sufferings  of 
middle  age,  when  we  groaned  under  the  weight  of 
other  people's  cares,  mourned  over  sorrows  that  we 
were  utterly  powerless  to  cure,  and  looked  forward 
with  endless  anxiety  into  an  uncertain  future,  not  con- 
sidering how  soon  it  would  become  the  harmless  past. 

Now  all  that  is  over.  The  old  never  grieve  much  ; 
at  least,  not  overmuch.  Why  should  they?  It  is 
strange  to  notice  how,  even  after  a  loss  by  death  that 
a  few  years  before  would  have  utterly  crushed  them, 
they  seem  to  rise  up  and  go  on  their  way — only  a  few 
steps  more — quietly,  even  cheerfully  ;  troubling  no  one, 
complaining  to  no  one,  probably  because  it  is  only  a 
few  steps  more.  Suffering  itself  grows  calm  in  the 
near  view  of  rest. 

Thus  it  is  with  people  of  restful  and  patient  mind. 
For  others  there  is  still  something  left.  "  I  have  had 
all  I  wanted,"  said  to  me  one  of  the  most  unquiet 
spirits  I  ever  knew,  keenly  alive  still,  even  under  the 
deadness  of  seventy-odd  years.  "Life  has  been  a  long 
puzzle  to  me,  but  I  am  coming  to  the  end  of  it  now. 
There  is  one  thing  more — I  want  to  find  out  the  great 
secret,  and  I  shall — before  long." 


72  OTJK   OFTEN    INFIRMITIES. 

One  can  quite  well  imagine  some  people,  to  whom 
the  after-life  was  neither  a  certainty  nor  even  a  hope, 
looking  forward  to  death  as  a  matter  of  at  least  curi- 
osity. But  for  us,  who  believe  that  death  is  the  gate 
of  life,  it  is  quite  a  different  feeling.  Putting  it  on  the 
very  lowest  ground,  to  have  all  our  curiosity  gratified, 
to  know  even  as  we  are  known,  to  feel  nearer  and 
nearer  to  our  hands  the  key  of  the  eternal  mystery, 
the  satisfying  of  the  infinite  desire ;  this  alone  is  con- 
solation, in  degree,  for  our  own  failing  powers  and  flag- 
ging spirits ;  nay,  even  for  the  slowly  emptying  world 
around  us — emptying  of  the  wise  and  the  good,  the 
pleasant  and  the  dear,  whom  one  by  one  we  see  pass- 
ing " ad  majores" 

"  If  I  could  only  get  rid  of  my  body,  I  should  be  all 
right,"  sighed  once  a  great  sufferer.  And  there  are 
times  when  even  the  most  patient  of  us  feel  rather  glad 
that  we  do  not  live  forever.  Respect  our  mortal  tab- 
ernacle as  we  may,  and  treat  it  tenderly,  as  we  ought 
to  do,  we  may  one  day  be  not  so  very  sorry  to  lay  it 
down,  not  only  with  all  its  sins,  but  with  its  often  in- 
firmities. 


Sermon  333. 

HOW  TO  TRAIN    UP  A   PARENT   IN 
THE   WAY   HE   SHOULD   GO. 


III. 


HOW  TO    TRAIN   UP  A    PARENT  IN   THE   WAY  HE 
SHOULD   GO. 

OH  dear !  I'm  afraid  I  shall  never  manage  to  bring 
up  my  mother  properly,"  was  the  remark  once 
made  by  a  rather  fast  young  lady,  to  whom  the  old- 
fashioned  institution  of  "  mothers "  was  no  doubt  a 
rather  inconvenient  thing. 

"  My  friend,"  said  an  old  Quaker  to  a  lady  who  con- 
templated adopting  a  child, "  I  know  not  how  far  thou 
wilt  succeed  in  educating  her,  but  I  am  quite  certain 
she  will  educate  thee." 

Often  when  I  look  around  on  the  world  of  par- 
ents and  children,  I  think  of  those  two  contradictory 
speeches,  and  of  the  truth  that  lies  between  them. 

The  sentiment  may  be  very  heretical,  but  I  have 
often  wondered  how  many  out  of  the  thousands  of 
children  born  annually  in  England  alone  come  to  par- 
ents who  at  all  deserve  the  blessing.  Not  one  half, 
certainly — even  among  the  mothers.  Halve  that  again, 
and  I  believe  you  will  come  to  the  right  percentage  as 
regards  the  fathers. 


76  HOW    TO    TEAIN    UP    A    PARENT 

It  is  sometimes  said  that  children  of  the  present  day 
are  made  too  much  of.  Perhaps  so.  They  but  follow 
the  fashion  of  the  age — any  thing  but  a  heroic  or  as- 
cetic age.  No  doubt  they  are  a  little  "spoiled."  So 
are  we  all.  But  the  errors  of  the  parents,  from  which 
theirs  arise,  are  a  much  more  serious  matter.  How  to 
train  up  the  parents  in  the  way  they  should  go  is  a 
necessity  which,  did  it  force  itself  upon  the  mind  of 
any  school-board,  would  be  found  quite  as  important  as 
the  education  of  the  children. 

When  we  think  of  them,  poor  helpless  little  creat- 
ures !  who  never  asked  to  be  born,  who  from  birth  up- 
ward are  so  utterly  dependent  upon  the  two  other  creat- 
ures to  whom  they  owe  their  existence  —  a  debt  for 
which  it  is  supposed  they  can  never  be  sufficiently 
grateful — do  not  our  hearts  yearn  over  them  with  pity, 
or  grow  hot  with  indignation  ?  This  even  without 
need  of  such  stories  as  we  are  continually  hearing — I 
take  three  at  random  from  to-day's  newspaper — of  the 
drunken  father  who  amused  himself  with  dashing  his 
three-years-old  child  against  the  table  till  he  accident- 
ally dashed  out  its  brains ;  of  the  woman  who  thrice 
in  one  afternoon  tried  to  drop  her  baby  among  the 
horses  and  carriages  in  High  Holborn ;  of  the  boy  of 
four  and  a  half  flogged  almost  to  death  by  a  school- 
board  teacher  for  not  doing  his  sums  and  not  answer- 
ing when  spoken  to;  which  case  the  magistrate — doubt- 


IN   THE   WAY   HE   SHOULD   GO.  77 

less  himself  a  father — curtly  dismissed,  saying,  "  If  dis- 
cipline were  not  to  be  maintained,  what  was  the  educa- 
tion of  boys  to  come  to  ?" 

However,  putting  aside  these  public  facts,  let  us  come 
upon  our  own  private  experience,  and  ask  ourselves 
honestly  how  many  people  we  know  who  are — or  are 
likely  to  prove — really  good  fathers  and  mothers  ?  wise, 
patient,  judicious?  firm,  watchful,  careful,  and  loving? 
Above  all  things,  just ;  since,  so  deeply  is  implanted  in 
the  infant  mind  this  heavenly  instinct,  that  if  I  were 
asked  what  was  most  important  in  the  bringing  up  of 
a  child,  love  or  justice,  I  think  I  should  say  justice. 

To  be  just  is  the  very  first  lesson  that  a  parent  re- 
quires to  learn.  The  rights  of  the  little  soul,  which  did 
not  come  into  the  world  of  its  own  accord,  nor  indeed 
was  taken  into  consideration  in  the  matter  at  all — for 
do  any  in  marrying  ever  think  of  the  sort  of  fathers  or 
mothers  they  are  giving  to  their  offspring? — the  rights 
of  this  offspring,  physical,  mental,  and  moral,  are  at 
once  most  obvious  and  least  regarded.  The  new-born 
child  is  an  interest,  a  delight,  a  pride ;  the  parents  ex- 
ult over  it,  as  over  any  other  luxury  or  amusement ; 
but  how  seldom  do  they  take  to  heart  the  solemn  re- 
pponsibility  of  it,  or  see  a  face  divine,  as  it  were,  look- 
ing out  at  them  from  the  innocent  baby-face,  or  ponder 
the  warning  of  Christ  Himself — "  Whoso  shall  offend 
one  of  these  little  ones  which  believe  in  me,  it  were 


78  HOW    TO    TRAIN    UP    A    PARENT 

better  for  him  that  a  millstone  were  hanged  about  his 
neck,  and  that  he  were  drowned  in  the  depth  of  the  sea." 

There  could  hardly  be  a  stronger  expression  of  the 
way  in  which  God — the  Christian  God — views  the  re- 
lation between  parents  and  children.  Yet  most  young 
parents,  who  until  now  have  been  accustomed  to  think 
only  of  themselves  or  of  one  another,  take  the  intro- 
duction of  the  unconscious  third  as  their  natural  pos- 
session, never  doubting  that  it  is  wholly  theirs  to  bring 
up  as  they  please,  and  that  they  are  quite  capable  of  so 
doing. 

Constantly  one  hears  the  remark, "  Oh  !  I  would  not 
take  the  responsibility  of  another  person's  child."  Does 
that  imply  that  they  feel  at  liberty  to  do  as  they  like 
with  their  own  ?  I  fear  it  does  ;  and  that  law  and  cus- 
tom both  appear  to  sanction  this  delusion.  Nobody 
must  "  interfere  "  between  parent  and  child,  at  least  not 
till  the  case  comes  within  a  degree  or  two  of  child-mur- 
der. The  slow  destruction  of  soul  and  body  which, 
through  ignorance  or  carelessness,  goes  on  among  hun- 
dreds of  children,  not  only  in  humble,  but  in  many  re- 
spectable and  well-regulated  households,  society  never 
notices.  I  suppose  even  the  most  daring  philanthropist 
would  never  venture  to  bring  in  a  bill  for  claiming  the 
children  of  unworthy  parents,  and  snatching  them  from 
ruin  by  annihilating  all  parental  rights  and  making 
them  children  of  the  State.  Yet  such  a  proceeding 


IN   THE   WAY   HE    SHOULD    GO.  79 

would  benefit  the  new  generation  to  an  incalculable 
degree. 

"  Train  up  a  child  in  the  way  he  should  go,"  is  the  ad- 
vice in  every  body's  mouth,  but  who  thinks  of  training 
the  parents  ?  Does  not  every  body  strictly  hold  that 
the  mere  fact  of  parenthood  implies  all  that  is  neces- 
sary for  the  up-bringing  of  the  child  ? — all  the  love,  all 
the  wisdom,  all  the  self-denial  ?  Does  it  ever  occur 
to  the  average  young  man  and  young  woman,  bending 
together  over  the  cradle  of  their  first-born,  that  the  lit- 
tle thing,  whose  teachers  they  are  proudly  constituting 
themselves  to  be,  is  much  more  likely  to  be  the  uncon- 
scious agent  in  teaching  them  ? 

And  the  education  begins  at  once.  How.  amusing 
and  at  the  same  time  how  satisfactory  it  is  to  see  a 
young  fellow,  who  throughout  his  bachelor  days  has 
been  a  selfish  egotist  —  most  young  bachelors  are — 
obliged  now  to  think  of  something  and  somebody  be- 
sides himself;  to  give  up  not  a  few  of  his  own  per- 
sonal comforts,  and  find  himself  forced  to  play  second 
fiddle  in  his  own  home — where  the  one  important  ob- 
ject, for  the  time  being,  is  "  the  baby." 

I  have  spoken  of  rights.  This  is  the  only  instance  I 
know  in  which  they  are  not  mutual,  but  entirely  one- 
sided. The  new-born  babe  owes  absolutely  nothing  to 
the  parents  beyond  the  physical  fact  of  existence.  All 
moral  claims  are  on  its  side  alone.  The  parents  are  re- 


80  HOW    TO    TKAIN    UP   A    PARENT 

sponsible  for  it,  soul  and  body,  for  certainly  the  first 
twenty  years ;  nor  even  after  that  is  it  easy  to  imagine 
circumstances  which  could  wholly  set  them  free.  The 
most  sorely  tried  father  and  mother  could  hardly  cast 
adrift  their  erring  offspring  without  a  lurking  uneasi- 
ness of  conscience  as  to  how  far  these  errors  were  ow- 
ing to  themselves  and  their  up-bringing.  For,  save  in 
very  rare  cases,  where  far-back  types  crop  out  again, 
and  are  most  difficult  to  deal  with,  there  is  seldom  a 
"  black  sheep  "  in  any  family  without  the  parents  hav- 
ing been  to  blame. 

"  Why,  I  brought  up  ray  children  all  alike,"  moans 
some  virtuous  progenitor  of  such.  "  How  does  it  happen 
that  this  one  has  turned  out  so  different  from  the  rest?" 

Just,  my  good  friend,  because  you  did  bring  them  up 
all  alike.  You  had  not  the  sense  to  see  that  the  same 
training  which  makes  one  mars  another ;  or  else  that  in 
training  them,  it  was  necessary  to  train  yourself  first. 
Meaning  to  be  a  guide,  you  were  only  a  finger-post, 
which  points  the  way  to  others,  but  stands  still  itself. 

The  very  first  lesson  a  parent  has  to  learn  is  that 
whatever  he  attempts  to  teach,  he  must  himself  first 
practice.  Whatever  he  wishes  his  child  to  avoid,  he 
must  make  up  his  mind  to  renounce;  and  that  from 
the  very  earliest  stage  of  existence,  and  down  to  the 
minutest  things.  In  young  children  the  imitative  fac- 
ulty is  so  enormous,  the  reasoning  power  so  small,  that 


IN   THE  WAY  HE   SHOULD   GO.  81 

one  can  not  be  too  careful,  even  with  infants,  to  guard 
against  indulging  in  a  harsh  tone,  a  brusque  manner,  a 
sad  or  angry  look.  As  far  as  is  possible,  the  tender 
bud  should  live  in  an  atmosphere  of  continual  sunshine, 
under  which  it  may  safely  and  happily  unfold,  hour  by 
hour  and  day  by  day.  To  effect  this  there  is  required 
from  the  parents,  or  those  who  stand  in  the  parents' 
stead,  an  amount  of  self-control  and  self-denial  which 
would  be  almost  impossible  had  not  Heaven  implanted 
on  the  one  side  maternal  instinct,  on  the  other- that  ex- 
traordinary winning  charm  which  there  is  about  all 
young  creatures,  making  us  put  up  with  their  endless 
waywardness,  and  love  them  all  the  better  the  more 
trouble  they  give  us. 

That  is  —  mothers  do.  When  I  said  "maternal  in- 
stinct" I  spoke  advisedly  and  intentionally.  Of  pater- 
nal instinct  there  is  almost  none.  A  man  is  proud  of 
his  sons  and  daughters  because  they  are  his  sons  and 
daughters — bound  to  carry  down  his  name  to  posterity ; 
but  he  rarely  takes  the  slightest  interest  in  any  body 
else's  children,  and  in  his  own  only  so  far  as  they  con- 
tribute to  his  pleasure,  amusement,  or  dignity.  The 
passionate  love  a  woman  often  has  for  another  wom- 
an's children,  and  for  the  feeblest,  naughtiest,  ugliest  of 
her  own,  is  to  men  a  thing  entirely  unknown.  Two 
thirds  of  paternal  love  is  pure  pride,  and  the  remaining 
third,  not  seldom,  pure  egotism. 

D2 


82  HOW   TO   TKAIN   UP   A   PARENT 

Therefore  for  the  first  seven,  nay,  ten  years  of  a  child's 
life,  it  should  in  most  cases  be  left  as  much  as  possible 
to  the  care  of  women.  Not  that  every  woman  has  the 
motherly  heart;  but  the  fatherly  heart  is  a  rarer  thing 
still. 

Besides,  men's  work  in  the  world  naturally  unfits  them 
for  the  management  of  children.  It  is  very  hard  for  a 
man,  who  has  been  worried  in  business  all  day  long,  to 
come  home  and  be  pestered  by  a  crying  child ;  even 
though  the  poor  innocent  can  not  help  itself — is  prob- 
ably only  tired  or  sick  or  hungry.  But  the  father  will 
not  see  this ;  he  will  only  see  that  the  child  annoys  him, 
and  must  therefore  be  "  naughty." 

"And  when  naughty,  of  course  it  must  be  punished," 
I  heard  a  middle-aged  father  once  say  with  virtuous 
complacency.  "My  boy  is  only  eleven  months  old — 
yet  I  assure  you  I  have  whipped  him  three  times." 

Whipped  him  three  times !  And  the  mother  allowed 
it — the  young  mother  who  sat  smiling  and  beautifully 
dressed  at  the  head  of  the  table.  Why  had  she  not  the 
sense  to  lock  her  nursery  door  against  the  brutal  fool? 
But  what  is  the  good  of  calling  names  ?  the  man  was 
simply  ignorant.  For  all  his  grand  assumption  of  pa- 
rental authority,  he  had  not  the  wit  to  see  that  for  the 
first  year,  perhaps  two  years  of  our  life,  there  can  be  no 
such  thing  as  moral  "naughtiness."  Existence  is  so 
purely  physical  that  if  we  only  take  care  of  the  little 


IN   THE   WAY   HE    SHOULD   GO.  83 

body,  the  mind  will  take  care  of  itself ;  or,  at  worst,  it 
is  so  completely  a  piece  of  white  paper  that  it  will  show 
nothing  save  what  we  write  upon  it.  Any  body  who 
has  had  much  to  do  with  young  children  must  acknowl- 
edge that  in  spite  of  the  doctrine  of  original  sin,  nearly 
every  childish  fault  is  a  reflected  fault,  the  copy  of  some- 
thing seen  in  other  people.  If  any  one  will  take  the 
trouble  to  notice  his  own  faults  or  peculiarities — which 
we  are  all  rather  slow  to  do — it  may  account  for  a  good 
many  "naughtinesses"  which  he  punishes  in  his  off- 
spring. 

It  is  often  strange  and  sad  to  see  how  hard  grown-up 
people— especially  men — are  upon  children :  expecting 
from  five — or  say  ten  years  old — an  amount  of  patience, 
diligence,  self-control,  and  self-denial  which  they  them- 
selves at  fifty-odd  have  never  succeeded  in  attaining  to. 
But  I  repeat,  so  few  men  are  by  temperament,  circum- 
stances, or  habits  in  the  least  fitted  for  the  management 
of  children,  that  the  advice  I  give  to  all  sensible  wives 
and  capable  mothers  concerning  their  little  ones  is  this 
—  Save  their  fathers  from  them,  and  save  them  from 
their  fathers. 

Not  but  what  there  are  fathers  true  and  tender,  firm 
as  a  man  ought  to  be,  unselfish  and  patient  as,  happily, 
most  women  are;  to  whose  breast  the  youngest  child 
runs  in  any  trouble — "  Oh,  it's  always  papa  who  com- 
forts us" — and  of  whom  the  elder  ones  say  fondly,"  We 


84  HOW   TO   TRAIN    UP   A   PARENT 

mind  one  look  of  papa's  more  than  twenty  scoldings." 
But  such  are  the  exceptions.  The  average  of  men  and 
fathers  are,  I  solemnly  believe,  quite  unfitted,  both  by 
nature  or  habit,  for  the  upbringing  of  children.  Thus, 
necessarily  the  duty  falls  on  the  mother.  And  why  not  ? 
What  higher  destiny  ? 

There  is  a  class  of  women  who  consider  that  they 
have  a  higher  destiny ;  that  to  help  in  the  larger  work 
of  the  world,  to  continue  their  own  mental  culture,  is 
far  more  important  than  to  bring  up  the  next  genera- 
tion worthily. 

Both  duties  are  excellent  in  their  way,  but  there  are 
plenty  of  unmarried  childless  women,  and  women  with 
no  domestic  instincts,  to  do  the  former — mothers  alone 
can  do  the  latter.  True,  it  exacts  the  devotion  of  the 
entire  life :  a  real  mother  has  no  time  for  gay  society, 
nor  intellectual  development  except  such  as  she  is  al- 
ways gaining  through  her  children ;  she  must  make  up 
her  mind  to  the  fact  that  they  and  her  husband  com- 
pose her  whole  world  and  fill  up  her  life. 

And  what  better  world  ?  what  nobler  life  3  Even  if 
she  is  worn  out,  "  like  a  rose-tree  in  full  bearing,"  and 
drops  off  when  her  destiny  is  done  ?  ISTo  matter,  she 
has  fulfilled  it,  and  she  is  and  she  will  be  blessed. 

Not,  however,  unless  she  has  thoroughly  fulfilled  it. 
The  mere  fact  of  bringing  eight  or  ten  children  into 
the  world  does  not  in  the  least  imply  true  motherhood. 


IN    THE   WAY   HE    SHOULD   GO.  85 

If  she  leaves  them  to  nurses  and  governesses ;  if  she 
shirks  any  of  the  anxious  cares,  perpetual  small  worries, 
and  endless  self-abnegations  which  are  her  natural  por- 
tion, the  under-side  to  her  infinite  blessings,  she  does 
not  deserve  these  last.  Not  every  mother  is  born  with 
the  mother's  heart ;  I  have  known  many  an  old  maid 
who  had  it,  and  I  have  heard  of  mothers  of  many  chil- 
dren who  owned  to  "  hating  "  every  child  as  it  came, 
and  only  learning  to  love  the  helpless  innocent  from  a 
sense  of  duty.  But  duty  often  teaches  love,  and  re- 
sponsibility produces  the  capacity  for  it.  Many  a  light- 
minded,  light-hearted  girl,  who  has  danced  and  flirted 
and  sentimentalized  through  her  happy  spring-time, 
finds  the  sweet  compulsion  of  nature  too  strong  for 
her ;  very  soon  she  forgets  all  her  follies  and  settles 
down  into  the  real  mother,  whom  love  instructs  in  all 
things  necessary  ;  who  shrinks  from  no  trouble,  is  equal 
to  all  duties  ;  is  to  her  children  nurse,  companion,  play- 
fellow, as  well  as  doctrcss,  seamstress,  teacher,  friend — 
every  thing  in  short.  The  father  may  be  more  or  less 
to  the  child,  as  his  occupation  and  his  own  peculiarities 
allow ;  but  the  mother  must  be  all  in  all,  or  God  help 
the  children ! 

Granting  that  the  mother-love  is  there,  is  love  suffi- 
cient ?  Not  'always.  It  will  not  make  up  for  the 
lack  of  common-sense,  self-control,  accurate  and  orderly 
ways : 


86  HOW   TO  TRAIN    UP    A   PAEENT 

"The  reason  firm,  the  temperate  will; 
Endurance,  foresight,  strength,  and  skill." 

Nor  does  the  mere  fact  of  parenthood  by  a  sort  of  di- 
vine right  constitute  all  parents  infallible,  as  they  are 
so  apt  to  suppose,  and  by  their  conduct  expect  their 
children  to  believe. 

The  child  will  not  believe  it,  not  after  the  very  first, 
unless  the  parent  prove  it :  and  this  by  something 
stronger  than  bare  assertion  or  natural  instinct.  It 
may  be  a  dangerous  thing  to  suggest,  but  I  am  afraid 
the  idea  of  some  mysterious  instinctive  bond  between 
parent  and  child  is  a  mere  superstition.  No  doubt  the 
feeling  is  there,  but  it  may  be  exercised  equally  with 
or  without  the  tie  of  blood.  Suppose,  unknown  to 
these  tender  young  parents,-  another  infant,  a  "  change- 
ling child,"  were  to  be  secretly  popped  into  the  cradle 
over  which  they  bend  so  fondly  ?  They  would  feel 
toward  it  exactly  the  same  sensations.  Also,  if  any 
aunt,  grandmother,  or  even  ordinary  stranger,  should 
fulfill  toward  that  child  all  the  duties  of  a  parent,  the 
love  won,  and  deserved,  would  be  a  true  filial  affection. 
The  instinct  of  blood,  as  people  call  it,  acts  admirably 
as  a  cement  to  other  ties  ;  but  of  itself,  save  in  poetical 
fancy,  it  has  no  existence  whatever.  Nothing  but  the 
wildest  imagination  could  have  made  George  Eliot's 
"  Spanish  Gypsy,"  tenderly  reared  and  betrothed  to  the 
man  she  loved,  elope  at  once  with  her  Zingaro  father, 


IN   THE   WAT    HE   SHOULD   GO.  87 

whom  she  had  never  seen  in  her  life  before.  And 
nothing  but  the  most  extraordinary  moral  twist  could 
make  people  condemn,  as  I  have  heard  condemned, 
Silas  Marner's  beloved  Eppie,  because,  placed  between 
her  adopted  father,  to  whom  she  owed  every  thing,  and 
her  flesh -and -blood  father,  to  whom  she  owed  noth- 
ing but  her  birth,  she  never  hesitated  in  choosing  the 
former. 

A  parent,  unlike  a  poet,  is  not  bom  —  he  is  made. 
There  are  certain  things  which  he  has  at  once  to  learn, 
or  he  will  have  no  more  influence  over  his  child  than 
if  he  were  a  common  stranger.  First,  he  must  institute 
between  himself  and  his  child  that  which  is  as  impor- 
tant between  child  and  parent  as  between  man  and 
God  —  the  sense,  not  of  absolute .  obedience,  as  is  so 
often  preached,  but  of  absolute  reliance,  which  produces 
obedience.  To  gain  obedience,  you  must  first  set  your- 
self to  deserve  it.  Whatever  you  promise  your  little 
one,  however  small  the  thing  may  seem  to  you,  and 
whatever  trouble  it  costs  you,  perform  it.  Never  let 
the  doubt  once  enter  that  innocent  mind  that  you  say 
what  you  do  not  mean,  or  will  not  act  up  to  what  you 
say.  Make  as  few  prohibitory  laws  as  you  possibly 
can,  but,  once  made,  keep  to  them.  In  what  is  granted, 
as  in  what  is  denied,  compel  yourself,  however  weary 
or  worried  or  impatient,  to  administer  always  even- 
handed  justice.  "  Fiat  justitia,  mat  coslum,"  is  a  sys- 


88  HOW   TO   TRAIN   UP   A   PARENT 

tern  much  more  likely  to  secure  your  child's  real  affec- 
tion than  all  the  petting  and  humoring  so  generally  in- 
dulged in,  to  give  pleasure  or  save  trouble,  not  to  your 
little  ones,  but  to  yourself. 

A  very  wise  woman  once  consoled  an  over-tender 
mother,  who  was  being  blamed  for  "  spoiling  "  her  lit- 
tle girl — "Never  mind.  Love  never  spoiled  any  child. 
It  is  the  alternations,  the  kiss  on  the  one  cheek  arid 
the  blow  on  the  other,  which  ruin." 

And  this  is  what  I  often  notice  in  extremely  well- 
meaning  parents :  their  love  is  not  a  steady  love,  but 
continually 

"Eoughened  by  those  cataracts  and  breaks, 
Which  humor  interposed  too  often  makes." 

They  can  not  keep  that  sweet,  level  calm  which  above 
all  things  is  necessary  for  the  government  of  children. 
The  same  playful  wiles  which  amuse  one  day  irritate 
the  next.  Not  that  the  child  is  different,  but  they  are 
in  a  different  rnood  themselves,  which  important  fact 
the  poor  little  thing  is  expected  at  once  to  recognize, 
and  act  accordingly. 

And  here  the  second  great  mistake  is  made.  "We  ex- 
pect too  much  from  our  children.  We  exact  from 
them  a  perfection  which  we  are  far  from  carrying  out 
in  ourselves ;  we  require  of  them  sacrifices  much  heav- 
ier, comparatively,  than  those  of  any  grown-up  person. 


IN    TITE    WAY    HE    SHOULD    GO.  89 

And  they  soon  find  that  out.  A  child's  eyes  are  very 
sharp.  Any  flaw  in  one's  argument,  any  lapse  in  one's 
conduct,  is  caught  up  by  them  and  reproduced  with 
alarming  accuracy. 

"  Mr.  A.  ?  is  that  the  Mr.  A.  whom  papa  dislikes  so  ?" 
said  an  innocent  enfant  terrible  before  a  whole  din- 
ner-table. And  papa,  who  had  let  his  prejudices  run 
away  with  him,  so  as  to  speak  a  great  deal  more  strong- 
ly than  he  meant  of  harmless  Mr.  A.,  felt  that  after  this 
there  would  be  some  difficulty  in  teaching  his  child  to 
obey  the  ninth  commandment  and  bear  no  false  witness 
against  its  neighbor. 

The  intense  truthfulness  and  straightforwardness  of 
children,  when  not  crushed  by  fear  or  corrupted  by  pre- 
cocious deceit,  is  a  perpetual  lesson  to  elder  people,  who 
have  learned  to  disguise  their  feelings ;  as,  I  suppose, 
we  all  must  in  degree. 

"  Mamma,  I  don't  like  that  gentleman ;  when  is  he 
going  away  ?"  observed  the  same  painfully  candid  child 
concerning  a  morning  visitor,  who  had  the  grace  to  say 
politely,  "  My  dear,  I  am  going  away  directly,"  and  dis- 
appear. But  then  it  was  necessary  to  take  the  matter 
in  hand.  And  never,  perhaps,  did  the  mother  feel  so 
strongly  that  courtesy  is  a  Christian  virtue,  and  Chris- 
tian charity  the  basis  of  all  good-breeding,  than  when 
she  had  to  explain  to  her  little  daughter  that  it  was  not 
"kind"  to  make  such  a  remark;  that  whether  we  like 


90  HOW   TO   TEAIN   UP   A   PAEENT 

people  or  not,  whether  they  are  agreeable  or  disagree- 
able, we  are  equally  bound  to  show  them  civility,  since 
by  incivility  we  disgrace  not  them,  but  ourselves.  And 
this,  without  advocating  any  insincerity  or  hypocrisy,  or 
even  "  company  manners,"  which  no  child  is  ever  likely 
to  assume  except.in  imitation  of  its  elders. 

To  be  perfectly  true,  perfectly  just,  perfectly  loving 
to  our  children,  is  the  only  way  of  teaching  them  to  be 
the  same  to  other  people.  The  very  tone  of  voice,  the 
turn  of  phrase,  the  trick  of  manner  of  their  elders  and 
(so-called)  superiors,  are  often  imitated  by  them  with 
such  a  frightful  accuracy  that  it  is  necessary  to  be  con- 
tinually on  our  guard.  One  sees  one's  own  reflection  in 
these  awful  little  people  as  startlingly  as  if  one  were  liv- 
ing in  a  room  of  looking-glasses.  And  therein  lies  the 
continual  education  which,  whether  or  not  the  parent 
gives  to  the  child,  the  child  unconsciously  gives  to  the 
parent.  Happy  he  who  is  clear-sighted  enough  to  read 
the  lesson,  and  wise  enough  to  profit  thereby. 

On  this  head  let  me  suggest  that,  if  the  children  miss 
much,  the  parents  miss  more,  by  the  fashion — exacted,  I 
suppose,  by  our  ever-growing  luxurious  habits — of  keep- 
ing children  so  much  in  the  nursery,  and  under  an  array 
of  nursemaids.  Yet  I  have  heard  very  sensible  mothers 
advocate  this;  declaring  that  it  "rests"  the  little  brain 
to  be  left  to  the  company  of  servants. 

The   French   people   think   differently.      In   French 


IN   THE   WAY   HE   SHOULD    GO.  91 

domestic  life  —  provincial  life,  for  France  is  more  dis- 
tinct from  Paris  than  England  is  from  London  —  in 
that  cheerful,  affectionate,  happy  home -life  which  is, 
I  believe,  far  commoner  with  them  than  with  others, 
one  of  the  brightest  and  most  wholesome  elements  is 
the  children.  They  have  no  nursery,  and,  after  the  very 
earliest  infancy,  they  have  no  bonne.  The  little  people 
are  always  with  the  big  people  —  father  and  mother, 
grandfather  and  grandmother — for  the  French  house- 
hold is  often  made  up  of  several  generations.  As  soon 
as  they  can  sit  at  table,  they  take  their  place  there ;  in 
the  salon  they  are  as  welcome  as  in  the  salle-a-manger ; 
and  thus,  unconsciously  brought  into  training  by  the 
good  manners  of  those  about  them,  they  learn  to  be 
little  ladies  and  gentlemen  almost  before  they  can 
speak. 

"  But,"  I  have  heard  people  argue,  "  how  can  you  pos- 
sibly have  children,  always  beside  you  ?  As  babies  you 
might,  if  you  could  put  up  with  the  trouble  of  them ; 
but  when  they  grow  older  it  would  be  so  very  awkward. 
For  their  own  sakes  even,  you  ought  not  to  let  them  hear 
their  elders'  conversation." 

What  an  admission !  Does  it  occur  to  any  of  these 
arguers  that,  except  in  very  rare  and  solemn  instances, 
the  talk  which  is  unfit  for  the  ears  of  children  ought 
never  to  be  talked  at  all  ?  For  what  does  it  usually  con- 
sist of?  Criticising  one's  neighbors;  sneering  at  one's 


92  HOW   TO   TRAIN    UP   A   PAKENT 

friends;  ridiculing  behind  their  backs  those  whom  we 
praise  to  their  faces;  telling  secrets  which  ought  never 
to  be  told;  making  bitter  or  equivocal  or  ill-natured 
remarks,  which  we  are  afraid  to  hear  repeated.  If  so, 
to  keep  our  children  always  in  the  room  with  us  would 
be  a  very  wholesome  discipline,  making  us  much  better 
folks  than  some  of  us  are  now. 

'Not  that  I  by  any  means  wish  to  take  a  sentimental 
or  picturesque  view  of  the  rising  generation.  It  is  often 
a  very  aggravating  generation  indeed.  Without  any  act- 
ual naughtiness,  the  restlessness  which  is  natural  to  a  child 
— indeed,  a  portion  of  its  daily  growth — -is  most  trying  to 
elder  people,  who  have  come  to  feel  the  intense  blessed- 
ness of  mere  rest.  And  when  it  becomes  worse  than 
recklessness — actual  willfulness  and  mischievousness — 
even  the  strongest  opponents,  theoretically,  of  corporal 
chastisement,  will  at  times  feel  their  fingers  tingling  with 
an  irresistible  inclination  to  box  their  darling's  ears. 

The  more  reason,  therefore,  that  they  should  restrain 
themselves,  and  not  do  it.  For  punishment  is  not  for 
the  good  of  the  punisher,  but  the  punished ;  and  no  pun- 
ishment inflicted  in  a  moment  of  irritation  can  ever  be 
of  the  smallest  good  to  either  side. 

And  this  brings  us  to  a  widely  discussed  question — 
whether  corporal  punishment  should  ever  be  inflicted 
on  children.  For  me,  I  answer  decidedly,  Never! 

My  reasons  are  these.    To  the  very  young — the  eleven- 


IN    THE   WAY   HE    SHOULD    GO.  93 

months-old  infant,  for  instance — such  a  chastisement  is 
simply  brutal ;  to  a  child  old  enough  to  understand  the 
humiliation  of  it,  a  whipping  can  rarely  do  good,  and 
may  do  incalculable  harm.  Besides,  the  degradation 
rests  not  alone  with  the  child.  A  big  creature  beating 
a  little  one  is  always  in  a  position  very  undignified,  to 
say  the  least  of  it.  Also,  there  is  a  certain  difficulty  in 
making  the  victim  comprehend  that  the  same  line  of 
conduct  which  his  parents  exercise  toward  him  is  utter- 
ly forbidden  him  to  exercise  toward  his  younger  broth- 
ers and  sisters. 

It  is  possible,  I  grant,  that  there  may  be  cases  of  act- 
ual moral  turpitude — lying,  theft,  and  the  like — when 
nothing  short  of  physical  punishment  will  affect  the 
culprit,  and  the  parent  has  to  stand  forth  as  the  stern 
administrator  of  justice;  but  it  must  be  clearly  shown 
to  be  justice,  not  revenge.  I  have  known  men  so  self- 
con  trolled,  so  tender,  and  withal  so  unswervingly  just, 
that  the  inevitable  whipping  being  inflicted,  and  sub- 
mitted to,  with  a  mournful  solemnity,  the  instant  it  was 
over  the  boy's  arms  were  around  the  father's  neck,  and 
both  wept  together.  But  such  cases  are  so  exceptional 
that  they  can  not  be  taken  as  a  guide.  The  ordinary 
rule  is,  that  when  a  child  is  bad  enough  to  deserve  a 
whipping,  the  infliction  of  it  will  likely  only  harden 
him ;  and  if  he  does  not  deserve  it,  his  whole  nature 
will  revolt  in  fury  at  the  punishment. 


94:  HOW    TO   TRAIN    UP    A   PAKENT 

I  shall  never  forget  once  seeing  a  small  boy  of  ten, 
the  inheritor  of  his  father's  violent  temper,  whom  that 
father  for  some  trivial  fault  seized  and  struck.  The 
little  fellow  raised  himself  on  tiptoe,  and,  doubling  his 
small  fist,  with  all  his  might  and  main  struck  back 
again :  a  proceeding  which  so  astonished  the  father — 
who,  like  all  tyrants,  was  rather  a  coward  —  that  he 
shrank  back,  and  retired  from  the  field.  He  hated  his 
boy  ever  after,  but  he  never  more  attempted  to  thrash 
him. 

You  will  perceive  I  hold  that,  in  the  training  of  the 
young,  example  is  every  thing,  precept  almost  nothing. 
Half  the  good  advice  we  give,  certainly  more  than  half 
of  our  scoldings,  just  "  goes  in  at  one  ear  and  out  at 
the  other."  The  continual  reproach  of  "  You  naughty 
child!"  the  seldom  -  fulfilled  threat  of  "I'll  punish 
you  !"  come  in  time  to  fall  quite  harmless  upon  hard- 
ened ears.  But  a  child  to  whom  fear  is  absolutely  un- 
known— as  unknown  as  punishment — whose  naughti- 
ness is  met  solely  by  silence,  feels  this  silence  alone  to 
be  the  most  terrible  retribution  for  ill -doing.  The 
withdrawal  of  the  parent's  smile  is  to  it  like  the  hiding 
of  God's  face.  "  Oh,  mamma,  don't  look  so  !  I  can't 
bear  it.  It  kills  me !"  is  the  cry  of  such  a  child,  fall- 
ing on  its  bended  knees  in  an  agony  of  contrition  and 
tears. 

It  is  not  the  preaching,  not  the  teaching,  not  the  con- 


IN   THE   WAY   HE   SHOULD   GO.  95 

tiiiual  worry  of  "  Don't  do  that !"  "  Why  didn't  you  do 
this  ?"  wliich  makes  children  what  we  call  "  good " 
children  —  that  is,  honest,  truthful,  obedient ;  trouble- 
some, perhaps  —  all  children  are  troublesome  —  but 
guilty  of  no  meanness,  deceitfulness,  or  willful  mis- 
chievousness.  It  is  the  constant  living  example  of 
those  they  are  with.  They  get  into  the  habit  of  being 
"  good,"  which  makes  this  line  of  conduct  so  natural 
that  they  never  think  of  any  other. 

And  here  we  come  upon  another  moot  question — 
whether  or  not  there  should  be  exacted  from  children 
blind  obedience  ?  Sometimes,  perhaps ;  there  may  be 
cases  where  such  is  the  only  safety.  But  ordinarily 
speaking,  while,  as  I  have  said,  a  child  should  be  first 
trained  into  that  implicit  reliance  on  the  parent  which 
of  necessity  induces  obedience,  I  think  the  parent  ought 
to  be  exceedingly  cautious  how  he  exacts  this  obedi- 
ence without  giving  a  sufficient  reason  for  it.  At  an 
incredibly  early  age  the  reasoning  powers  of  a  child 
can  be  developed,  if  the  parent  will  take  a  little 
trouble  to  do  it ;  and  how  very  much  trouble  it  saves 
afterward  he  will  soon  find  out.  Three  words  of  gen- 
tle explanation  —  "Don't  do  that,  my  child,  because," 
etc., 'etc. — will  give  him  a  stronger  influence,  a  com- 
pleter  authority  over  the  little  mind  than  any  harshly 
iterated,  unexplained  prohibitions.  And  the  good  of 
this  works  both  ways ;  while  it  gives  the  child  confi- 


96  HOW   TO   TKAIN    UP   A   PARENT 

dence  in  the  parent,  it  teaches  the  parent  his  most  dif- 
ficult part,  to  exercise  authority  without  tyranny.  That 
barbaric  dictum,  "  Do  this,  because  I  choose  it,"  be- 
comes softened  into  the  Christian  command, "  Do  this, 
because  I  wish  it,"  or  the  still  higher  law,  "  because  it 
is  right."  I  have  never  yet  known  a  child  "  naughty  " 
enough  deliberately  to  refuse  to  do  a  thing  when  asked 
to  do  it  simply  on  the  ground  "  that  it  was  right." 

This,  again,  leads  us  to  a  point  upon  which  I  think 
many,  nay,  most  parents  grievously  err — the  system  of 
rewards  and  punishments.  It  is  like  bringing  into  in- 
nocent child-life  that  terrible  creed  which  makes  re- 
ligion consist,  not  in  the  love  of  God,  and  the  obeying 
Him  because  we  love  Him,  but  in  finding  out  the  best 
and  easiest  way  to  take  care  of  ourselves — to  keep  out 
of  hell  and  get  into  heaven. 

A  principle  which,  put  thus  into  plain  English,  we 
start  at,  yet  whether  or  not  believing  in  it  ourselves  we 
practice  it  fatally  with  our  children.  "  Do  this,  and  I'll 
give  you  such  and  such  a  thing."  "  Dare  to  do  that, 
and  I  will  take  from  you  so  and  so,  which  you  delight 
in."  A  method  which,  like  some  forms  of  theology, 
may  be  convenient  and  effective  at  the  time,  but  which 
afterward  is  most  ruinous,  inasmuch  as  it  entirely  abro- 
gates that  doctrine  upon  which  I  base  the  whole  mutual 
training  of  parents  and  children — the  doctrine  of  abso- 
lute right  for  right's  sake. 


IN    THE    WAY    HE    SHOULD    GO.  97 

For  how,  if  you  have  brought  up  young  creatures  on 
the  principle  of  "  Behave  well,  and  you  shall  have  a 
sweetie  " — "  Behave  ill,  and  I'll  whip  you  or  send  you 
to  bed,"  can  you  follow  it  out  by  teaching  your  grow- 
ing boy  or  girl  to  "  eschew  evil  and  do  good  "  purely  for 
the  love  of  good  and  the  hatred  of  evil  ?  How,  above 
all,  can  you  put  into  their  hearts  the  love  of  God,  when 
in  after-life  He  hides  His  face  in  so  many  dark  ways — 
when  His  teachings  seem  often  so  mysterious,  nay,  cruel 
— except  by  saying, "  Love  Him,  because  He  is  perfect 
Love ;  adore  Him,  because  He  is  absolute  Justice  ?" 

Next  to  that  justice,  which  is,  I  believe,  a  heavenly 
instinct  with  almost  all  young  children,  their  strongest 
need,  and  the  most  powerful  influence  with  them,  is 
sympathy.  And  this  the  wise  parent  will  give  at  all 
times  and  under  all  circumstances.  A  child  accus- 
tomed to  find  in  the  mother's  bosom  a  perpetual  ref- 
uge, to  bring  there  all  its  little  woes — so  small  to  us,  to 
it  so  large — to  get  answers  to  all  its  questions,  interest 
in  all  its  discoveries,  sympathy  in  all  its  amusements — 
over  a  child  so  trained  the  influence  of  the  mother  is 
enormous,  nay,  unlimited.  What  a  safeguard  to  both ! 
not  only  in  childhood,  but  in  after-years.  To  feel  that 
she  is  an  absolute  providence  to  her  child — that  from 
babyhood  it  has  clung  to  the  simple  belief  that  mamma 
must  be  told  every  thing,  and  can  right  every  thing. 
What  an  incalculable  blessing !  lasting  till  death,  and 

E 


98  HOW    TO   TRAIN   UP   A   PARENT 

after — the  remembrance  of  a  mother  from  whom  the 
child  has  never  received  any  thing  but  love. 

Love,  the  root  of  sympathy,  is  the  most  powerful 
agent  in  the  bringing  up  of  children.  Not  mere 
caresses ;  yet  these  are  not  to  be  despised,  as  being 
"  the  outward  and  visible  sign  of  an  inward  and  spirit- 
ual grace."  The  earliest  development  of  our  nature  is 
so  entirely  objective  rather  than  subjective,  practical 
rather  than  ethical,  that  a  kiss  or  a  cuddle  at  all  times 
is  a  much  more  potent  agent  in  moral  education  than 
stern  elder  folk  believe.  Love,  not  in  word  only,  but 
in  action ;  love,  ever  at  hand  to  remove  small  evils,  to 
lessen  great  ones ;  to  answer  all  questions,  and  settle 
all  difficulties ;  to  be  a  refuge  in  trouble,  a  sharer  in 
joy,  and  a  court  of  appeal  where  there  is  always  cer- 
tainty of  sympathy  if  not  redress ;  this  is  the  sort  of 
thing  which  gives  to  parents  their  highest,  noblest  in- 
fluence—beginning with  birth  and  ending  only  with 
the  grave. 

An  influence  which  alone  can  knit  anew  the  pa- 
rental and  filial  tie  at  the  time — and  this  time  comes 
in  all  lives — when  it  is  so  apt  to  loosen ;  I  mean  when 
the  child,  which  at  first  had  seemed  a  mere  mirror  re- 
flecting the  objects  placed  before  it,  develops  into  an 
individual  character,  sometimes  a  character  as  differ- 
ent as  possible  from  both  father  and  mother. 

This  is  a  hard  crisis,  common  though  it  be.     Fathers, 


IN   THE   WAY   HE   SHOULD   GO.  99 

who  see  their  boys  growing  up  without  a  single  habit 
or  taste  resembling  their  own ;  mothers,  who  perplex- 
edly trace  in  their  young  daughters  some  type  of  wom- 
anhood totally  distinct  from,  and  perhaps  very  distaste- 
ful to  themselves,  are  surely  much  to  be  pitied.  But 
so  are  the  children,  especially  those  who  with  their 
originality,  impetuosity,  and  passionate  impulses  after 
unknown  good,  have  all  the  ignorance  of  youth  con- 
cerning the  known  good  —  the  patience,  the  wisdom, 
the  long-suffering,  which  is,  or  ought  to  be,  the  strong- 
est characteristic  of  parents. 

It  has  been  learned  by  them  through  years  of  sore 
teaching.  That  perpetual  self-denial,  which,  as  I  have 
said,  begins  at  the  very  cradle — that  habit  of  instinct- 
ively thinking,  in  all  things  great  and  small,  not  of 
their  own  pleasure,  not  even  of  their  child's  pleasure., 
but  of  that  child's  ultimate  good,  has  been  in  all  par- 
ents who  really  deserve  the  name  a  training  they  can 
never  forget.  It  helps  them  now,  in  this  difficult  time 
which,  I  repeat,  comes  soon  or  late  in  almost  all  fam- 
ilies ;  when  there  is  a  grand  clashing  of  rights  and 
conflict  of  duties,  occasionally  ending  in  a  general  up- 
breaking  of  both. 

A  child's  first  rights  are,  I  have  said,  plain  enough : 
as  plain  as  the  parents'  duties.  Afterward  they  be- 
come less  clear.  The  extent  to  which  a  parent  should 
put  up  with  a  child,  or  a  child  withstand  a  parent,  is 


100          HOW  TO  TRAIN  UP  A  PARENT 

most  difficult  to  decide.  Equally  difficult  is  it  to  say 
how  far  both  are  right  or  both  wrong  in  the  sad  season 
when  one  side  becomes  exacting  and  the  other  careless ; 
when,  despite  all  outward  show  of  respect  and  affec- 
tion, the  father  feels  indignantly  that  his  influence 
over  his  boys  is  almost  nothing,  and  the  mother,  with 
a  sharp  pang  at  her  heart,  which  she  vainly  tries  to 
hide,  is  conscious  that  her  young  daughter,  who  for 
twenty  years  has  been  the  delight  of  her  eyes,  prefers 
being  the  delight  of  other  eyes,  and,  though  very  kind 
to  her,  finds  her — just  a  little  uninteresting. 

The  time — it  must  come  to  us  all — when  we  cease 
to  be  a  sort  of  lesser  providence  to  our  children,  who 
cease  in  their  turn  to  look  up  to  us  and  lean  all  their 
troubles  upon  us;  when  they  begin  to  think  and  act  for 
themselves,  and,  quite  unconsciously  perhaps,  put  us  a 
little  on  one  side  as  old  and  odd  and  out  of  date ;  un- 
questionably this  is  a  bitter  climax  to  our  years  of  pa- 
tient love.  Yet  it  is  but  a  portion  of  the  training — 
usually  the  highest  and  best  training  we  ever  get — 
which  God  gives  to  us  through  our  children.  And 
it  is  not  impossible  to  be  passed  through,  and  safely, 
too,  on  both  sides ;  especially  in  families  which  have 
been  brought  up  on  the  principle  I  have  before  up- 
held— of  absolute  right,  to  be  followed  without  regard 
to  either  benefit  or  injury,  pleasure  or  pain. 

The  doctrine  with  which  I  started — of  the  child's 


IN   THE   WAY   HE   SHOULD   GO  101 

claims  upon  the  parent  being  far  stronger  than  those 
of  the  parent  upon  the  child — teaches  us,  to  the  very 
last,  at  least  tolerance.  If  our  sons  resist  us  in  choos- 
ing a  career,  or,  still  worse,  in  choosing  companions 
that  we  believe  will  ruin  that  career ;  if  our  daugh- 
ters will  go  and  fall  in  love  with  the  last  man  in  the 
world  we  would  have  desired  for  their  husbands — 
well,  why  is  this  ?  These  young  souls  were  given  to  us 
apparently  an  absolute  blank  page,  upon  which  we 
micrht  write  what  we  chose.  We  have  written.  It  is 

O 

we  who  have  formed  their  characters,  guided  their  ed- 
ucation, governed  their  morals.  Every  thing  they  are 
now  we  have  or  are  supposed  to  have  made  them  ;  at 
least,  we  once  thought  we  should  be  able  to  make  them. 
If  they  turn  out  well  we  shall  assuredly  take  the  credit 
of  it ;  if  they  turn  out  ill — what  say  we  then  ?  That 
it  is  their  fault,  or  ours  ? 

As  a  general  rule,  if,  as  soon  as  time  has  enabled 
our  sons  and  daughters  to  escape  out  of  our  authority, 
they  escape  out  of  our  influence  also — if,  having  ceased 
to  rule,  we  have  no  power  to  guide  —  there  must  be 
something  wrong  somewhere ;  somebody  has  been  to 
blame.  Can  it  possibly  be  ourselves  \ 

The  system  that  prevention  is  better  than  cure  is 
infallible  with  little  children  —  no  one  doubts  that. 
Any  parents  who  for  want  of  rational  precaution  al- 
lowed their  children  to  fall  into  the  fire  or  the  water, 


102  HOW  TO  TRAIN  UP  A  PARENT 

or  to  do  one  another  some  serious  bodily  harm,  would 
be  stigmatized  as  either  wicked  or  insane.  Yet,  when 
the  young  people  are  growing  up  —  and  just  at  the 
most  critical  point  of  their  lives — how  often  do  these 
parents  shut  the  stable-door  after  the  steed  is  stolen  ? 

"  Sir,"  said  a  shrewd  old  gentleman,  when  questioned 
as  to  the  character  of  one  of  his  guests — "  Sir,  do  you 
think  I  would  ever  let  a  young  man  inside  my  doors 
who  was  not  fit  to  marry  my  daughter  ?" 

And  the  same  principle  might  apply  to  sons :  not 
only  as  to  their  marriage — which  is  a  later  affair,  and 
one  which  after  all  they  must  settle  for  themselves — 
but  as  far  as  possible  with  regard  to  their  ordinary 
associates  and  associations.  Even  as  a  wise  mother 
makes  her  nursery  one  of  the  cheerf  ullest  rooms  in  the 
house,  a  wise  father  will  in  after -years  try  to  make 
his  house  one  of  the  pleasantest  places  in  the  world 
to  his  grown-up  sons — a  home  from  which  they  will 
never  care  long  to  stray,  and  to  which  they  will  look 
back,  amid  the  storms  of  the  world,  as  a  happy  haven, 
where  was  neither  dullness  nor  harshness ;  where  the 
reins  of  authority  were  prudently  and  slowly  relaxed, 
until  nothing  remained  of  the  necessary  absolute  con- 
trol of  childhood,  save  the  tender  reasoning  —  "for 
your  own  good,  my  boy  " — which  boys  so  seldom  fully 
prize  until  they  have  it  no  longer. 

Girls  too,  who  may  have  lovers  in  plenty,  but  have 


IN    THE   WAY   HE    SHOULD    GO.  103 

only  one  mother ;  perhaps  some  of  them  think,  or  have 
once  thought,  that  a  mother's  sympathy  and  advice  is 
the  most  intolerable  thing  imaginable  in  love  affairs, 
which  generally  between  parents  and  children  are  one 
long  worry  from  beginning  to  end.  This,  even  when 
the  end  is  happy  marriage.  But  how  often  do  we  see 
parents  looking  irritably  or  anxiously  upon  a  long  string 
of  unmarried  daughters,  wondering  mournfully  what  in 
the  world  is  to  become  of  them  by  and  by. 

And  here  I  must  give  utterance  to  another  heresy.  I 
think  there  are  too  many  parents  who  do  not  take  half 
enough  trouble  to  marry  their  children — that  is,  to  give 
them  fair  opportunity  of  marriage.  They  are  so  apt  to 
consider  them  exclusively  their  own  property,  and  to 
feel  personally  aggrieved  when  they  wish  to  strike  into 
new  ground,  or  form  new  ties  for  themselves.  Or  else 
they  are  weary  and  lazy;  life  is  not  to  them  what  it 
once  was — what  it  now  is  to  their  children ;  they  prefer 
to  sit  at  ease  by  the  fireside ;  visitors  rather  trouble 
them ;  they  grudge  their  young  people  the  society  they 
naturally  crave,  and  in  which,  rationally  guided,  they 
would  find  their  best  chance  of  choice. 

Consequently  our  sons  often  make  rash  mistakes  in 
marriage,  and  our  daughters  not  unfrequently  do  not 
marry  at  all.  This  is  no  dire  misfortune.  Any  thing 
less  than  a  thoroughly  happy  marriage  is  to  women 
much  worse  than  celibacy;  but  still  it  is  a  sad  thing 


104  HOW  TO  TEAIN  UP  A  PARENT 

to  parents  to  watch  a  family  of  girls  "  withering  on  the 
virgin  thorn,"  with  no  natural  outlet  for  their  affections ; 
themselves  a  little  soured  and  their  elders  just  a  little 
disappointed ;  for  no  doubt  there  is  a  certain  dignity  in 
"my  married  daughter,"  perhaps  as  being  an  uncon- 
scious tribute  from  the  son-in-law  to  the  parent  of  his 
wife,  never  attained  by  the  mother  of  unappreciated 
old  maids. 

If  foreign  parents  are  to  be  blamed  for  the  "ar- 
ranged" or  compelled  marriages  which  we  so  strongly 
condemn,  I  think  we  are  also  to  blame  when  we  either 
deliberately  stand  in  the  way  of  our  children's  happi- 
ness, or  tacitly  let  it  slip  by,  giving  them  no  oppor- 
tunity of  making  a  rational  choice  in  marriage.  Surely 
it  is  the  bounden  duty  of  wise  elders  not  to  ignore 
nature,  but  to  accept  the  inevitable  cares  of  "  pairing- 
time,"  when  the  young  birds,  fully  fledged,  will  de- 
sire to  leave  the  nest,  however  soft  it  is  made;  when 
that  overpowering  instinct  before  which  the  warmest 
filial  love  sinks  cold  and  colorless  will  assert  itself,  aye, 
and  guide  itself  too ;  unless  we  have  strength  and  self- 
denial — ah,  no  end  to  parental  self-denial! — to  forget 
our  personal  pain,  and  throwing  ourselves  heartily  into 
the  young  folks'  place,  succeed  in  guiding  it  a  little  also. 

At  best  this  love-season  is  a  sad  one,  since  few  love 
affairs  are  perfectly  smooth  and  happy,  and  to  see  our 
children  suffer  is  sharper  than  to  suffer  ourselves ;  espe- 


IN    THE   WAY    HE    SHOULD    GO.  105 

cially  when  we  can  no  longer  help  them.  While  they 
arc  babies,  there  is  a  certain  omnipotence  about  parent- 
hood ;  but  when  the  time  comes  that  the  child's  unfail- 
ing shelter  is  no  longer  the  mother's  heart,  when  the 
father's  strong  right  arm  of  guidance  and  protection 
sinks  absolutely  powerless — then  things  grow  hard. 

Harder  still  when,  as  sometimes  happens,  the  parents' 
will  pulls  one  way  and  the  child's  another.  One  side 
or  other  must  yield.  It  is  the  last  and  sorest  lesson  in 
the  parents'  training,  to  feel  that  in  most  cases  it  is  they 
who  will  have  to  yield. 

I  do  not  uphold  marriages  against  the  consent  of  par- 
ents. I  believe  they  never  happen  without  something 
a  little  wrong  on  both  sides ;  and  when  they  do  happen, 
they  always  bring  with  them  their  punishment — to  both. 
This  even  when  things  smooth  down,  as  they  most  often 
do.  But  the  act  itself  remains,  and  the  result  of  it — 
even  as  I  heard  a  young  daughter  lately  protest,  when 
her  lover  was  interdicted  the  house  —  "Why  do  you 
blame  me,  mamma  ?  You  married  papa  in  direct  op- 
position to  your  parents." 

And  this  must  sometimes  be  done.  Both  the  laws 
of  our  country,  and  the  honest  moral  sense  thereof, 
allow  it.  Abroad,  it  is  more  difficult.  But  here,  after 
the  age  of  twenty-one,  any  young  man  or  woman  may 
deliberately  walk  out  of  the  father's  house  and  into 
the  nearest  church,  and  be  married  to  whom  he  or  she 

E2 


106  HOW  TO  TEAIN  UP  A  PAEENT 

pleases.  But,  I  think,  the  only  permissible  way  of  so 
doing  lies  in  doing  it  thus  openly  and  deliberately,  and 
after  all  rational  submission  and  persuasion  have  failed. 
Such  a  marriage  can  not  be  a  happy  thing ;  it  will  be  a 
sore  thing  in  many  ways  to  all  parties,  as  long  as  they 
live.  But  it  may  be  a  necessary  and  not  unrighteous 
thing,  and  it  may  turn  out  a  portion  of  that  salutary 
training  which  is  given  us,  not  by  our  children,  but  by 
Heaven  through  them. 

Looking  at  things  in  this  light,  we  can  better  learn  to 
bear  the  griefs  and  perplexities  of  that  troublous  time 
to  which  I  am  referring.  It  may  be  lightened,  if  we 
take  care  to  keep  for  our  grown-up  sons  and  daughters 
the  same  key  which  unfailingly  unlocked  the  baby-heart 
— sympathy.  A  broken  doll — a  broken  heart — has  not 
the  mother's  heart  balm  for  both  ?  That  is,  if  we  still 
have  strength  not  to  think  of  ourselves  first,  but  of  our 
children.  Above  all,  not  to  be  vexed  or  irritated,  as  we 
sometimes  are,  even  at  their  happiness.  For  under  the 
most  favorable  circumstances,  what  son  ever  brought  to 
his  mother  a  daughter  whom  she  really  considered  wor- 
thy of  him  ?  And  what  father  ever  gave  his  consent  to 
the  addresses  of  the  most  unexceptionable  of  sons-in-law 
without  a  secret  wish  to  shut  the  door  in  his  face  ? 

Yes,  there  may  be  wounds — there  must  be ;  but  they 
will  not  be  poisoned  wounds,  if  the  parents  have  done 
their  duty.  And  by  and  by  the  reward  will  come,  if 


IN    THE    WAY   HE    SHOULD    GO.  107 

reward  ever  does  come  as  a  complete  thing,  or  is  ever 
meant  to  do  so  in  this  world.  Certainly  not  parental  re- 
ward. If  parents  work  for  that  they  will  fail.  "  Take 
this  child  and  nurse  it  for  me"-  —  is  God's  command 
concerning  every  little  soul  put  into  life.  How  few 
parents  either  hear,  believe,  or  obey  it,  He  knows. 

Yet  the  truth  remains  a  truth  still,  and  likewise  a 
consolation.  Even  as  a  young  mother  sees,,  and  will 
often  have  to  see,  her  little  one  turn  from  her  to  some 
more  amusing  person,  who  perhaps  is  less  strict,  less 
wise,  merely  thinking  of  her  or  his  own  pleasure  with 
the  child,  and  not  the  child's  real  good;  so  many  a 
mother,  well  on  in  years,  may  have  to  be  taught  the 
sad  but  wholesome  lesson  that  her  children  were  not 
merely  her  children,  made  exactly  after  her  pattern, 
and  bound  to  minister  solely  to  her  comfort  and  carry 
out  her  wishes,  but  were  also  meant  to  be,  so  to  speak, 
the  children  of  heaven.  If  they  continue  such,  living 
out  their  life  in  righteous  and  honorable  fashion,  even 
though  it  may  not  be  her  life,  nor  carried  out  after  her 
fashion — still  she  will  accept  the  will  of  Heaven,  and 
learn  to  be  content.  The  mental  training  has  been 
gone  through ;  she  has  educated  her  children,  and  they 
have  educated  her;  all  may  not  be  perfectly  smooth 
and  happy,  but  still  all  is  well. 

Every  mother  must  be  in  degree  a  sort  of  Hannah. 
She  may  bring  her  son  his  little  coat — she  may  come 


108          HOW  TO  TRAIN  UP  A  PARENT 

up  to  see  him  yearly  in  the  Temple ;  but  with  all  that 
she  must  give  him  to  God.  To  give  our  children  up 
to  God,  to  end  with  a  training  totally  different  from 
that  with  which  we  began,  to  be  obliged  to  recognize 
our  own  powerlessness,  and  learn  to  sit  still  with  folded 
hands,  resigning  them  and  their  fortunes  into  their  own 
hands — or  rather  into  higher  hands  than  either  theirs 
or  ours — this  is  no  easy  lesson  for  parents.  And  yet 
we  must  learn  it — the  sharpest  and  the  last. 

No,  not  quite  the  last.  As  said  a  little  girl  of  six— 
whose  only  idea  of  death  was  of  "going  up  into  the 
sky,"  and  being  made  perfectly  happy  and  lovely  and 
good — after  being  taken  to  see  an  old  woman  of  ninety- 
nine,  "  Oh,  mamma,  please  don't  live  to  be  ninety-nine. 
You'll  be  so  ugly!" 

Alas,  there  comes  a  time  when  we  know  we  must  be 
"  ugly,"  more  or  less ;  physically,  and  perhaps  morally 
too ;  when  the  worn-out  body  will  not  respond  to  the 
mind,  or,  may  be3  even  the  mind  is  wearing  out,  so  that 
by  no  possibility  can  we  give  pleasure,  and  may  give 
much  pain,  even  to  our  best  beloved. 

This  is  a  hard  time ;  nor  is  it  wonderful  that  parents 
and  children  sometimes  succumb  to  it,  and  the  relation, 
once  so  sweet  and  easy,  becomes  a  heavy  burden.  But 
there  are  parents  who  make  it  much  heavier  than  it 
need  to  be  by  their  extreme  selfishness,  their  utter  want 
of  recognition  of  the  fact  that  the  most  duteous  child 


IN    THE    WAY    HE    SHOULD    GO.  109 

that  ever  was  born  can  not  live  forever  in  a  sick-room 
or  beside  an  arm-chair.  The  younger  life  has  to  last 
long  after  the  elder  one  is  ended.  To  blight  it,  even 
for  a  time,  by  any  unnecessary  suffering,  is  a  cruelty, 
which  not  even  the  sternest  upholder  of  filial  duty  can 
ever  justify. 

I  have  seen  parents,  not  intentionally  selfish,  who, 
when  old  age  came  upon  them,  grew  so  exacting,  fret- 
ful, irritable,  compelled  such  constant  attendance,  and 
insisted  on  such  incessant  sacrifices,  as  literally  to  take 
the  life — or  at  least  all  that  life  was  worth — out  of 
their  children,  whom  every  -body  but  themselves  saw 
were  being  "  killed  by  inches,"  as  the  phrase  is.  Only 
fancy !  living  till  one's  best  friends  say  with  bated 
breath,  "  If  it  would  but  come  to  an  end  " — that  is,  our 
life ;  as  the  only  means  of  saving  other  and  more  pre- 
cious lives. 

But  this  need  not  be — it  ought  never  to  be.  A  little 
self-control  at  the  beginning,  a  steady,  persistent  recog- 
nition of  the  fact  that  the  young  are  young,  and  we  are 
old  ;  they  blooming,  we  fading  ;  they  going  up  the  hill, 
and  we  down  it — that  this  is  God's  will,  to  be  accepted 
placidly  and  cheerfully,  and  made  as  little  trouble  about 
as  possible,  and  we  need  not  fear  ever  becoming  very 
"  ugly."  Especially  since,  as  the  mother  answered  that 
little  girl,  we  need  not  have  much  fear  of  living  till 
ninety-nine. 


110  HOW  TO  TRAIN  UP  A  PARENT 

But  before  the  "  ugly  "  time  there  is  another,  which 
must  be  rather  sweet  than  sad — the  silent  time  "be- 
tween the  lights  " — when  the  labor  of  the  day  is  over, 
and  the  rest  of  the  night  not  yet  come ;  when  the  house 
is  empty  of  little  feet  and  noisy,  tumultuous  voices,  and 
the  parents,  who  once  thought  they  would  have  giv- 
en any  thing  in  the  world  for  quiet,  now  have  quiet 
enough ;  only  too  much  perhaps.  All  the  obstreper- 
ous young  flock  are  grown  up  and  gone  away,  some 
into  married  homes,  some  into  the  work  of  the  busy 
world,  some  into  a  silenter  world,  where  earthly  work 
is  over.  And  these,  I  think,  are  the  only  children  par- 
ents keep  forever.  The  others  come  and  go,  returning 
to  the  old  home  merely  for  a  little  while ;  but  still  it  is 
plain  to  see — often  they  allow  it  to  be  seen  a  little  too 
plainly — that  the  parents'  house  is  their  real  home  no 
more. 

And  so  the  two  old  folks — fortunate  if  there  are  still 
two — must  learn  to  sit  together  by  their  silent  fireside, 
remembering  that  they  have  but  gone  the  way  which 
their  parents  did  before  them,  and  their  children  must 
follow  after ;  that  all  is  quite  natural,  quite  right,  and 
there  is  nothing  to  complain  of — only,  sometimes,  it 
feels  just  a  little  hard. 

Or  it  would  feel  hard  had  we  not  strength  to  take  in 
that  consolation  which  I  have  spoken  of — that  our  chil- 
dren are  God's  children  as  much  as  ours — lent,  and  not 


IN   THE    WAY   HE    SHOULD    GO.  Ill 

given.  "  Inasmuch  as  ye  have  done  it  unto  the  least  of 
these,  ye  have  done  it  unto  me." 

And  He  never  denies  us  the  reward.  It  comes,  in  a 
certain  degree,  from  the  very  first ;  for  amid  the  end- 
less trouble  they  give,  the  almost  unbearable  trials  to 
patience  and  temper  that  they  bring,  every  child  brings 
its  own  blessing  likewise.  A  daily  blessing— refresh- 
ing, soothing,  cheering — for  the  companionship  of  an 
ordinarily  good  and  intelligent  boy  or  girl  is  often 
better  than  that  of  any  grown-up  person.  And  the 
love  of  a  child,  its  absolute  unshaken  trust — when  it 
has  always  met  trust  for  trust  and  love  for  love — how 
sweet  both  are  !  How  perfect  is  the  delight,  the  per- 
fection of  all  human  delights,  of  those  years  when  par- 
ents have  their  little  flock  around  them,  and  watch 
them  grow  up  day  by  day,  like  the  Holy  Child  of  Naz- 
areth— "  in  wisdom  and  in  stature,  and  in  favor  with 
God  and  man." 

There  is  a  joy,  greater  than  even  the  joy  of  a  mother 
over  her  first-born,  or  the  exultation  of  a  man  over  the 
baby-son  to  whom  he  hopes  to  bequeath  his  honor,  his 
worldly  goods,  and  his  unblemished  name  ;  and  that  is, 
to  have  arrived  at  old  age  and  seen  this  child,  from 
its  own  day  of  birth  to  its  parents'  death-day,  living  the 
life  they  would  have  it  live,  carrying  out  the  principles 
they  taught  it,  and  being  in  every  way  what  I  have 
called  "  the  child  of  heaven  " — God's  child  as  well  as 


112  HOW  TO  TEAIN  UP  A  PARENT 

theirs.  Then  all  the  training,  bitter  and  sweet,  which 
they  have  undergone,  and  made  their  child  undergo — 
for  no  parents  are  worth  the  name  who  have  not 
strength  sometimes  to  wring  their  own  hearts,  and 
their  child's  too,  for  a  good  end — will  have  been  soft- 
ened down  into  permanent  peace.  A  peace  enduring 
even  amid  all  the  trying  weaknesses  of  old  age,  all  the 
probable  sufferings  of  the  failing  body  and  worn-out 
mind ;  lasting  even  to  the  supreme  moment,  when  the 
aged,  dying  head  rests  on  the  still  young  breast,  and  the 
child  kisses  the  closed  eyes,  which,  through  all  anxiety, 
pain,  even  displeasure,  never  lost  their  look  of  love- 
never  till  now.  And  now  it  is  all  ended.  No,  not 
ended — God  forbid. 

There  was  a  parent  I  knew — one  who  had  been  both 
father  and  mother  to  his  children  (as  some  fathers  can 
be,  and  are,  thank  God!)  for  nearly  half  a  century. 
Passing  away,  in  the  ripe  perfectness  of  a  most  noble 
life,  he  was  heard  to  whisper  feebly,  "  Adieu,  ma  fille !" 
She  sobbed  out,  "  Non,  non,  mon  pere !"  He  lifted  him- 
self up  in  the  bed,  and  with  the  old  gleam  in  his  eyes, 
the  old  force  in  his  voice,  to  an  extent  of  which  those 
present  had  hardly  believed  a  dying  man  capable,  ex- 
claimed, "  Non,  non.  Pas  adieu ! — Au  revoir !" 

And  surely  if  there  are  any  meetings,  any  reunions 
granted  in  the  other  world,  they  will  be  granted  to  par- 
ents and  children. 

•*          #•*          *          •*          •*          *          * 


IN    THE   WAY    HE    SHOULD   GO.  113 

"  Train  up  a  parent  in  the  way  he  should  go "  was 
the  queer  title  I  gave  to  this  sermon.  You  may  have 
begun  it  with  a  smile ;  perhaps  you  will  have  ended  it, 
as  I  do,  with  something  more  like  a  tear.  That  is  just 
what  I  meant.  Farewell. 


Sermon  it). 
BENEVOLENCE  — OR   BENEFICENCE? 


IV. 

BENEVOLENCE— OR  BENEFICENCE? 

"  T  DO  believe  that  one  half  the  so-called  '  charity ' 
-*•     going  is,  in  its  results,  worse  than  an  error — an 
actual  crime.     Suppose  you  were  to  write  an   essay 
upon  '  The  Crime  of  Benevolence !' '' 

The  arch-heretic  who  suggested  this  had  been  spurred 
on  thereto  by  a  recent  visit  to  a  very  "  benevolent "  par- 
ish, probably  one  of  the  richest  and  most  charitable  par- 
ishes in  Great  Britain.  It  possessed — possesses  still,  for 
aught  I  know — within  a  very  moderate  area,  not  too 
densely  populated,  three  churches,  one  chapel,  and  two 
iron  rooms  for  mission  services.  It  had  clothing  clubs, 
coal  clubs,  blanket  clubs,  provident  and  work  societies. 
At  its  parish  school  an  admirable  education  could  be 
got  for  threepence  a  week.  Its  penny  readings  for  the 
men,  its  mothers'-meetings  for  the  women,  gave  every 
opportunity  of  mental  and  moral  improvement  to  that 
class  which  we  patronizingly  term  "our  poorer  breth- 
ren." In  short,  every  thing  was  done  that  could  be 
done  to  make  poverty  unnecessary  and  vice  impossible. 


118  -      BENEVOLENCE — OR   BENEFICENCE? 

Yet,  my  informant  confessed,  both  abounded.  Pub- 
lic-houses stared  you  in  the  face  at  every  corner,  and 
were  always  full  —  of  women  as  well  as  men.  Con- 
sequently wretched  homes,  neglected  children,  young 
women,  whom  no  wise  mistress  of  a  house  ever  thought 
of  taking  into  her  service,  middle-aged  women,  whom 
to  employ  as  laundresses,  seamstresses,  or  even  charwom- 
en was  hopeless :  their  characters  were  so  bad.  Even 
the  long-suffering  clergymen's  wives  and  district  visitors, 
trying  continually  to  do  good,  were  as  continually  baf- 
fled. Nobody,  having  once  employed  the  objects  of 
their  hopeless  compassion,  ever  did  it  again.  Charity 
these  people  were  always  open  to  receive,  but  the  best 
kind  of  charity  —  work — it  was  useless  to  give,  if  the 
giver  wished  it  to  be  any  thing  better  than  a  disguised 
form  of  almsgiving. 

And  yet  this  place  was  an  El  Dorado  of  benevolence ; 
where  the  poor  not  only  got  their  daily  bread,  but  got 
it  buttered  on  both  sides.  An  opportune  death  or  for- 
tunate accident  would  bring  to  the  spot  half-a-dozen 
clergymen  with  prayers  and  purses;  half-a-dozen  la- 
dies following  with  tracts  and  clothes;  until  the  suf- 
ferers, becoming  quite  important  people,  realized  fully 
the  advantage  of  being  "afflicted,"  and  continuing  to 
be.  One  story  I  heard  of  a  laborer's  household,  which, 
deprived  suddenly  of  its  drunken  head,  found  itself  "  as- 
sisted "  so  much,  that  when  it  went  to  church  next  Sun- 


BENEVOLENCE OR   BENEFICENCE?  119 

day  in  its  new  clothes,  a  shrewd  neighbor  declared  it 
reminded  her  of  Mrs.  Hofland's  tale,  "  The  Clergyman's 
"Widow,  and  her  Young  Family."  And  the  youngest  child 
being  met  afterward,  "  Yes,  ma'am,"  said  the  mother,  in 
a  whining  tone,  "  I've  just  been  taking  Bobby  to  the 
doctor,  and  he  orders  him  wine,"  with  a  glance  thatj 
meeting  no  response,  dropped  immediately.  But  the 
habit  of  begging  was  too  strong  to  be  resisted.  "Do 
you  think,  ma'am,"  with  an  additional  whine  of  humil- 
ity, "  you've  got  such  a  thing  as  a  pot  of  strawberry  jam 
for  Bobby  to  take  his  physic  in  ?" 

It  is  these  sort  of  people  who  harden  one's  heart, 
and  incline  one  to  rank  our  benevolent  friends  with 
two  other  classes,  equally  injurious  —  I  was  going  to 
write  obnoxious  —  the  folk  who  pride  themselves  on 
the  fact  that,  if  they  have  a  fault,  it  is  being  too  "  ten- 
der-hearted;"  and  those  weak  fools,  the  scourge  and 
torment  of  society,  who  are  politely  said  to  be  "  no- 
body's enemy  but  their  own." 

To  call  benevolence  a  crime!  To  say  that  benevo- 
lent people  actually  injure  those  they  attempt  to  aid! 
It  seems  a  curious  paradox;  but  does  not  experience 
prove  it  to  be  very  near  the  truth?  And  why? 

This  question  is  best  answered  by  another — "What  is 
benevolence  ?  Literally,  the  word  means  "  wishing  well ;" 
and  I  suppose  we  must  take  for  granted  that  all  benev- 
olence really  wishes  well  to  its  object :  that  is,  it  would 


120  BENEVOLENCE — OR   BENEFICENCE? 

rather  do  good  than  not,  provided  the  thing  costs  little 
trouble.  Beyond  that  —  well,  let  any  one  of  us  try 
honestly,  as  honestly  as  if  we  all  lived  in  the  Palace  of 
Truth,  to  analyze  the  motive  of  his  next  act  of  charity : 
say,  the  next  sixpence  he  gives  to  a  street-beggar. 

Why  does  he  give  it  ?  First,  probably,  to  save  him- 
self pain.  It  is  decidedly  painful  to  look  upon  distress, 
and  troublesome  to  be  followed  down  the  street  with 
whining  petitions  for  aid.  Also  a  kind  action  gratifies 
our  self-love,  and  makes  us  generally  comfortable ;  and 
to  be  thanked  is  more  than  comfortable  —  agreeable. 
So  he  extracts  the  coin  from  his  pocket,  throws  it  to  the 
beggar,  and  goes  his  way ;  but  of  the  various  complex 
motives  for  this  benevolent  action,  almost  all  concern, 
not  the  object  of  it,  but  his  own  self.  Except,  indeed, 
the  natural  motive  of  all  benevolence,  for  which  we 
ought  in  justice  to  give  all  benevolent  people  the  credit, 
a  general  kindly  feeling  to  their  species,  and  a  wish  to 
benefit  them  rather  than  do  them  harm.  But  the  ques- 
tion—just as  I  argued  in  relation  to  self-sacrifice— 
whether  the  important  element  in  a  gift  is  the  advan- 
tage of  the  donor  or  the  recipient,  does  not  occur  to 
them. 

Not  when  the  good  deed  is  private  and  small,  like 
the  eleemosynary  sixpence  referred  to ;  still  less  when 
the  benevolence  is  public :  say,  a  church  collection 
when  the  churchwarden,  our  neighbor  and  friend,  is 


BENEVOLENCE — OB   BENEFICENCE?  121 

holding  the  plate ;  or  a  subscription  to  a  charity,  in 
which  every  body  will  see  our  name,  and  the  sum  ap- 
pended thereto. 

Now  I  do  not  mean  to  be  severe  upon  the  many 
rich  people  in  rich  England,  whose  purses  are  always 
open  to  public  or  private  charity.  They  do  their  duty. 
Society  expects  it  of  them,  and  they  know  it  does. 
Besides,  they  really  like  to  do  good,  and  the  easiest 
way  of  doing  it  is  through  their  pockets.  Any  other 
way  takes  such  a  world  of  trouble ;  and  they  dislike 
trouble — most  people  do.  They  give — to  any  body  or 
any  thing — of  what  costs  them  nothing,  and  which  they 
never  miss.  They  enjoy  all  the  credit  of  doing  a  gen- 
erous action,  and  the  burden  of  really  doing  it  falls 
upon  other  people.  What  matter  ?  they  argue ;  it  is 
only  division  of  labor.  So  others  do  the  work,  and 
they  the  magnificence.  It  is  so  easy  to  be  magnificent, 
when  one  is  either  a  spendthrift  or  a  millionaire.  The 
difference  looks  very  small ;  only  a  word,  or  a  few  let- 
ters in  a  word ;  yet  if  we  examine  it,  it  is  enormous. 
It  is  the  difference  between  Benevolence  and  Benefi- 
cence. 

An  extravagant  person  may  be  as  extravagant  in  his 
charities  as  he  is  in  his  luxuries ;  for  charity  is,  in  truth, 
a  sort  of  luxury.  Many  a  man  called  benevolent  is 
simply  wasteful,  and  the  cause  of  waste  in  others ;  for 
to  give  away  money  without  considering  how  far  the 

F 


122  BENEVOLENCE — OK   BENEFICENCE? 

recipient  has  a  right  to  it,  or  will  benefit  by  it,  is  no 
more  an  act  of  benevolence  than  is  throwing  down  a 
handful  of  coppers  to  be  scrambled  for  in  the  street. 

Another  of  the  most  dangerous  and  difficult  sort  of 
benevolent  people  are  those  who  are  always,  willing  to 
do  every  thing  for  every  body,  who  go  about  with  a 
long  string  of  jproteges,  whom  they  are  ready  to  foist 
upon  us  on  the  smallest  excuse.  These  general  ac- 
cepters and  protectors  of  waifs  and  strays  are  very 
troublesome  folk.  In  the  first  place,  because  so  evenly 
is  desert  and  deserving  apportioned,  even  in  this  life, 
that  I  believe  few  people  remain  waifs  and  strays  per- 
manently without  there  being  some  inherent  cause  for 
that  condition.  Trouble  comes  alike  to  all ;  but  some 
deserve  it — others  do  not.  Some  rise  out  of  it — have 
the  faculty  to  rise  out  of  it ;  others  never  rise,  and  ap- 
parently have  no  care  or  wish  to  rise.  And  your  care- 
lessly benevolent  people  refuse  to  draw  the  distinction. 
Even  if  you  draw  it  for  them,  they  meet  you  with  an 
avalanche  of  texts,  such  as  "  He  maketh  His  sun  to  shine 
upon  the  just  and  the  unjust,"  etc.,  etc. 

They  forget  that  they  are  not  Providence.  Besides, 
according  to  them,  their  proteges  are  never  bad,  only 
unfortunate.  Their  geese  are  always  swans — in  their 
eyes,  simply  because  they  patronize  them.  Patronage 
is  so  pleasant,  and  to  be  followed  by  a  little  crowd  of 
admirers  is  so  soothing  to  the  benevolent  mind.  So 


BENEVOLENCE OK    BENEFICENCE  ?  123 

they  annoy  us  unjpenevolent  people  at  their  pleasure,  by 
supplying  the  best  of  characters  to  incompetent  serv- 
ants, offering  as  candidates  for  important  situations  per- 
sons who  have  no  recommendation  whatever  for  the 
position,  except  the  need  of  it,  and  so  on.  These  are 
they  who  entreat  us  to  get  published  feeble  manuscripts 
on  the  feebler  plea  that  the  authors  "  wish  to  add  a  lit- 
tle to  their  income,"  or  have  experienced  reverses,  or 
would  like  to  earn  something  for  a  benevolent  purpose. 
As  if  these  were  any  reasons  for  trying  to  do  what  they 
can  not  do,  or  for  others  aiding  them  therein ;  since,  as 
a  rule,  good  work  deserves  good  pay,  and  will  get  it ; 
bad  work  should  get  nothing,  however  great  the  need 
of  the  doer  of  it. 

But  our  short-sighted,  kindly  meaning  friends  can 
not  see  this.  They  still  keep  urging  us  to  employ  un- 
suitable servants,  who  want  our  place  so  badly  ;  to  send 
our  children  to  a  particular  school,  or  to  deal  at  some 
special  shop,  not  because  it  is  the  best  school  or  the  best 
shop,  but  because  "  the  poor  things  are  so  ill  off,  you 
see  ;  it  is  quite  a  charity." 

Why  are  they  so  ill  off?  Is  there  not  a  cause  for  it ? 
Accidental  misfortune  will  happen  to  all ;  but,  as  I 
have  said,  and  the  observation  of  life  forces  me  to  be- 
lieve it  more  firmly  every  year,  no  one  ever  remains  un- 
fortunate without  there  being,  generally  speaking,  some 
recondite  reason,  some  "  screw  loose  "  somewhere,  ac- 


124:  BENEVOLENCE — OK   BENEFICENCE  ? 

counting  for  the  fact.  It  may  be  a  l^ard  saying,  but  I 
fear  it  is  only  too  true,  that  nobody  ever  becomes  a  per- 
manent "object  of  charity"  without  having  ceased  to 
deserve  it. 

This  rule  especially  applies  to  the  large  class  of 
which  all  of  us  know  so  many,  who  are  said  to  live 
"  from  hand  to  mouth,"  the  mouth  being  usually  their 
own,  and  the  hand  that  of  their  friends ;  or  rather  the 
acquaintances  who  successively  acquire  and  renounce 
the  title. 

"  Neither  a  borrower  nor  a  lender  be, 
For  debt  oft  loses  both  itself  and  friend." 

Itself,  because  the  borrower  seldom  becomes  such  till 
he  is  in  circumstances  which  make  repayment  at  least 
doubtful ;  the  friend,  because  two  friends  who  have 
been  placed  in  that  position  together  rarely  recover  the 
old  relation  entirely.  A  gift,  out  and  out,  is  often  a 
real  pleasure,  an  exceeding  boon  ;  but  a  loan,  if  ever 
repaid,  or  very  long  of  repayment,  always  places  both 
parties  in  a  false  position.  There  is  a  sense  of  humilia- 
tion on  the  one  side,  of  being  made  use  of  on  the  other, 
which  creates  reserve  at  any  rate,  even  between  sincere 
friends ;  and  if  there  has  been  in  the  transaction  the 
slightest  insincerity,  is  fatal  in  its  results.  You  pity, 
you  pardon  ;  you  regret,  you  apologize ;  but  you  two 
are  never  quite  as  you  were  before.  Of  course  there  is 


BENEVOLENCE OR   BENEFICENCE?  1^5 

no  rule  without  exceptions;  still,  ordinarily  speaking, 
they  are  the  wisest  people  who  follow  Polonius's  advice, 
and  as  long  as  possible  preserve  themselves  from  being 
either  borrowers  or  lenders. 

But  there  is  a  form  of  borrowing  and  lending  which 
becomes,  on  both  sides,  an  error  so  great  as  to  be  little 
short  of  an  actual  crime :  in  the  borrower,  who  bor- 
rows without  hope  or  intention  of  repayment ;  in  the 
lender,  who  does  what  he  is  asked  to  do  from  no  sense 
of  kindness  or  justice,  or  even  charity,  but  just  "to 
get  rid  of  the  fellow,"  or  from  being  himself  "  a  fel- 
low that  can't  say  No."  Worse  sometimes,  a  fellow 
who  from  some  business  or  worldly  reason  concerning 
the  borrower  and  himself,  is  afraid  of  the  consequences 
of  saying  No.  Therefore  he  allows  himself  to  pay  a 
sort  of  black-mail  to  the  unworthy  levier  thereof ;  hat- 
ing and  grudging,  but  still  paying  it,  and  flattering 
himself  that  it  looks  like  benevolence. 

The  cowardice  of  such  conduct  is  only  equaled  by 
its  folly.  If  my  friend,  so  called,  writes  to  me  again 
and  again,  "Lend  me  five  pounds  to  save  me  from 
ruin,*'  the  only  rational  reply  is,  "If  only  five  pounds 
stands  between  you  and  ruin,  you  had  better  be  ruined, 
and  have  done  with  it."  To  be  perpetually  stopping 
up  a  hole,  which  yawns  the  next  day  wider  than  ever, 
is  the  act,  not  of  generosity  but  of  stupidity.  Many 
a  man  has  gone  to  ruin,  the  real  ruin  he  first  made 


126  BENEVOLENCE — OK   BENEFICENCE  ? 

a  pretense  of,  because  some  weak,  foolish  relative  or 
friend  to  whom  he  applied  for  money  had  not  the 
sense  to  refuse  it  at  once ;  absolutely,  remorselessly, 
at  all  cost  of  pain  and  wounded  feeling  between  him- 
self and  his  would-be  debtor.  Better  a  passing  cool- 
ness than  an  enmity  for  life. 

They  who,  for  any  of  the  motives  here  named — mo- 
tives, you  will  observe,  which  affect  their  own  person- 
ality more  than  the  borrower's  —  continue  lending  to 
unfortunate  people,  simply  because  they  are  unfortu- 
nate, are  guilty  on  three  counts  :  first,  toward  them- 
selves, for  a  pretense  of  generosity  which  is  only  ego- 
tistic selfishness;  secondly,  toward  the  person  they  at- 
tempt to  benefit,  whom  they  do  not  benefit,  but  rather 
injure ;  thirdly,  toward  other  and  worthier  persons, 
whom  they  lose  the  power  of  helping,  by  having  helped 
unworthy  ones. 

For  the  really  deserving  neither  beg  nor  borrow — 
they  suffer  silently ;  while  the  loud-complaining,  ever- 
greedy  applicants  for  aid  always  get  the  best  of  what 
charity  is  going.  I  often  think  that  much  of  the  be- 
nevolence in  this  world  is  poured  out  like  pig- wash  ; 
the  pig  who  makes  most  noise,  or  who  succeeds  in  get- 
ting his  two  feet  in  the  trough  while  the  others  have 
but  one,  is  the  animal  who  swallows  most  and  fattens 
fastest. 

That  before-mentioned  sixpence  thrown  to  a  mendi- 


BENEVOLENCE OR   BENEFICENCE  ?  127 

cant,  only  to  be  converted  into  gin  or  beer,  that  five 
pounds  lent  to  a  needy  acquaintance,  who  always  has 
been  needy  and  always  will  be,  because  he  has  not 
the  slightest  sense  of  the  value  of  money,  nor  the  least 
conscience  in  obtaining  it  or  spending  it ;  these,  with 
a  hundred  similar  cases,  are  specimens  of  what  I  call 
the  crime  of  benevolence.  The  donors  err,  not  only 
iu  what  they  do,  but  in  what  they  leave  undone.  They 
may  be  benevolent  in  vague  intention,  but  of  true  be- 
neficence they  have  not  the  slightest  idea. 

The  difference  is  this:  Benevolence  consists  in  mere 
kind  feeling ;  doing  good  certainly  sometimes,  but  in 
a  vague  and  careless  way,  and  more  for  its  own  pleas- 
ure than  for  another's  benefit ;  giving,  because  to  give 
is  agreeable,  but  taking  little  pains  to  ascertain  what 
has  been  the  result  of  the  gift.  The  donor  has  done 
his  part,  and  that  is  enough.  It  may  be  another  her- 
esy, but  I  am  afraid  the  reason  that  our  charitable  in- 
stitutions are  so  numerous,  and  our  subscription -lists 
so  easy  to  fill  up,  is  because,  of  all  modes  of  benevo- 
lence, giving  of  money  is  the  one  which  involves  least 
trouble. 

But  beneficence  does  cost  trouble.  It  requires  in 
the  individual  some  rather  rare  qualities ;  powers  of 
administration  and  patient  investigation ;  clear  judg- 
ment and  capacity  for  work ;  a  kind  heart,  and  a  cool 
head — aye,  and  a  hard  head,  too.  The  power  of  saying 


128  BENEVOLENCE — OK    BENEFICENCE  ? 

No,  and  the  will  to  say  it,  with  a  steady,  strong,  un- 
varying justice,  are  as  necessary  as  quick  sympathy 
and  ready  help. 

Though,  in  the  main,  true  beneficence  aims  less  at 
helping  people  than  at  enabling  them  to  help  them- 
selves, there  will  always  be  in  the  world  a  large  amount 
of  those  who  can  not  possibly  help  themselves :  the 
sick,  the  aged,  the  young,  the  hopelessly  feeble  and 
incapable.  It  is  the  more  necessary  that  any  body 
who  can  do  any  thing  should  be  left  to  do  it,  or  taught 
to  do  it,  for  Beneficence  is  always  more  of  a  teacher 
than  a  preacher.  She  would  be  more  prone  to  set  up 
a  cookery-school  than  a  soup-kitchen ;  and  would  con- 
sider the  building  of  a  row  of  workmen's  cottages, 
well -arranged,  well -drained,  well  -  ventilated,  of  rather 
more  importance  than  the  erection  of  the  finest  church 
imaginable. 

I  think  it  is  an  open  question  how  far  real  benefi- 
cence has  to  do  with  charity,  i.e.,  giving  of  money,  at 
all.  Secondarily,  of  course,  it  must,  but  primarily.  I 
was  once  talking  with  a  lady  whose  name  is  sufficiently 
well  known,  though  I  will  not  give  it  here,  and  who 
has  done  more  good  in  ameliorating  the  condition  of 
the  London  poor  than  all  the  philanthropists,  religious 
and  otherwise,  who  have  flooded  the  metropolis  with 
their  bounty,  and  left  it,  people  say,  especially  at  the 
East-end,  rather  worse  than  they  found-  it — in  a  condi- 


BENEVOLENCE OK    BENEFICENCE?  129 

fcion  of  expectant  pauperism,  which  is  forever  crying, 
"  Give,  give,  give."  Now  this  lady  told  me  that  dur- 
ing all  the  years  of  her  dealings  with  the  poor — the 
very  poor — whom  she  has  slowly  lifted  from  the  con- 
dition of  savages,  the  savagery  of  London  courts  and 
alleys,  into  intelligent  human  beings — during  all  these 
years,  she  said,  she  had  never  given,  in  mere  charity, 
one  single  shilling.  Fair  payment  for  fair  work  was 
the  principle  she  invariably  went  upon.  She  planned 
houses,  with  every  comfort  that  a  working  man's  fam- 
ily could  require,  but  she  exacted  from  her  tenants 
the  weekly  rent,  and  when  they  did  not  pay  she  turned 
them  out ;  she  found  employment  for  all  that  would 
do  it,  but  if  not  done  it  was  not  paid  for ;  she  assisted 
the  women  in  their  efforts  to  become  good  housewives, 
taught  them  to  cook,  to  sew,  to  make  clothes  ;  she  went 
from  house  to  house,  leaving  behind  her  plenty  of  good 
advice  and  kindly  sympathy,  but  never  either  a  tract 
or  a  half-penny.  She  took  endless  trouble,  ran  no  end 
of  risks,  and  exerted  an  influence,  almost  miraculous, 
over  her  rough  community ;  but  from  first  to  last,  she 
said,  her  experience  was  this,  "Help  the  poor  to  help 
themselves.  Give  them  advice,  instruction,  work  — 
mixed  with  plenty  of  sympathy.  Sometimes,  in  very 
hard  cases,  money's  worth,  such  as  clothes  or  food,  but 
never  under  any  circumstances  give  them  money." 
Yet  this  lady  is  one  of  the  very  few  philanthropists 
F2 


130  BENEVOLENCE OK   BENEFICENCE? 

who  have  really  met  their  reward,  and  seen  the  work  of 
their  hands  prosper.  Her  little  kingdom,  which  she 
rules  with  a  kindly  though  most  firm  hand,  is  full  of 
subjects  who  not  only  obey  but  love  her.  She  enters 
fearlessly  into  courts  and  alleys  of  the  lowest  class, 
known  hitherto  only  to  the  inspector  of  nuisances  and 
the  police  detective ;  she  commences  her  reforms,  and 
by  and  by  the  wild  inhabitants  are  found  as  decent 
folk,  living  in  decent  dwellings,  amenable  to  law,  com- 
mon-sense, and  kindly  feeling. 

Moreover,  she  succeeds  in  what  almost  all  charities 
fail  in  —  she  actually  makes  it  pay.  She  has  gained 
a  small  percentage  on  the  money  employed,  of  which 
she  has  been  so  long  the  wise  administrator.  And  this 
fact  is  confirmatory  of  another  axiom  of  hers,  proved  by 
her  own  experience,  that  no  charity  effects  so  much  per- 
manent good  as  one  which  is,  or  soon  can  be  made,  self- 
supporting.  In  short,  such  is  the  necessary  mutual  re- 
lation between  the  helped  and  the  helpers,  the  poor  and 
the  rich,  that  the  former  cease  to  value  what  they  can 
get  for  nothing,  and  the  latter  soon  find  that  while  they 
think  they  are  assisting  the  poor,  they  are  only  sinking 
them  from  honest  independence  to  weak  dependence, 
from  mere  poverty  into  absolute  pauperdom. 

I  can  not  more  clearly  describe  what  I  mean  by  be- 
nevolence and  beneficence  than  by  putting  this  lady's 
work — the  work  of  a  lifetime — side  by  side  with  that  in 


BENEVOLENCE — OK   BENEFICENCE?  131 

the  "  charitable  "  parish  I  have  mentioned — also  anony- 
mously— where  money  was  poured  out  like  water,  and 
the  needy  had  but  to  ask  and  to  have.  Here,  on  the 
contrary,  nothing  was  done  from  charity,  every  thing 
from  justice :  the  common  justice  between  man  and  man, 
which  makes  the  laborer  worthy  of  his  hire,  the  rent- 
payer  deserving  of  a  decent  house  to  live  in — as  good 
a  house  of  its  kind  for  a  mechanic  as  for  a  gentleman ; 
but  at  the  same  time  exacting  from  the  poor  man,  in 
proportion  to  his  means,  precisely  the  same  honesty,  so- 
briety, and  conscientiousness  that  is  exacted  in  the  class 
above  him. 

Until  "  gentlefolk "  believe  this,  and  cease  to  regard 
their  servants,  clerks,  etc.,  as  inferior  beings,  from  whom 
nothing  is  to  be  expected  but  a  hand-to-hand  struggle 
between  rich  and  poor,  employer  and  employed,  as  to 
who  shall  have  the  best  of  it;  until  they  give  up  the 
system  of  treating  their  dependents  as  mere  machines, 
out  of  whom  as  much  work  is  to  be  got  as  possible ;  or 
as  brute  beasts,  for  whom  no  training  answers  but  whip- 
ping or  feeding,  and  to  whom  they  may  throw  their 
charity  as  they  would  throw  a  bone  to  a  dog,  with  as 
little  care  for  the  result  of  it ;  until  this  state  of  things 
ends,  there  must  be  always  that  secret  enmity  between 
class  and  class,  that  half -concealed,  half -acknowledged 
difference  in  morals,  feelings,  and  principles,  which  con- 
stitutes the  main  difficulty  of  those  who  would  fain  have 


132  BENEVOLENCE — OR   BENEFICENCE? 

but  one  law  of  right  for  all,  and  look  upon  every  man 
who  fulfilled  it  as  "a  man  and  a  brother." 

There  is  another  phase  of  the  crime  of  benevolence, 
unconnected  with  money,  which  ought  not  to  be  passed 
over:  that  is  the  leniency  with  which  some  very  well- 
disposed  people  get  to  look  on  moral  turpitude.  Some 
do  it  through  mere  laziness  or  indifference.  "  It  is  not 
my  business;  why  should  I  give  myself  any  trouble 
about  it?"  So  they  shut  their  eyes  to  wickedness — in 
their  rich  neighbor,  whom  they  ask  to  dinner,  though 
they  are  not  quite  sure  he  was  too  honest  in  that  busi- 
ness transaction  of  last  week;  in  their  poor  domestic — 
say,  their  coachman — who  they  know  gets  drunk  every 
Saturday  night,  and  beats  his  wife ;  but  the  lodge  is  too 
far  off  to  hear  her  cries,  and,  the  carriage  not  being  out 
on  Sundays,  John  can  not  drive  his  master  into  a  ditch. 
So,  since  John  is  a  good  servant,  and  knows  his  business 
well,  the  master  ignores  the  whole  matter  of  the  drunk- 
enness; to  notice  it  .would  be  so  very  inconvenient. 
And  Mr.  Blank,  whose  acquaintance  it  would  be  so 
awkward  to  give  up,  is  smiled  upon  blandly ;  until 
some  day  he  happens  to  be  taken  up  for  forgery. 

Others  take  their  stand  upon  the  divine  saying,  "I 
came  not  to  call  the  righteous  but  sinners  to  repent- 
ance;" and  obeying  it  in  their  imperfect,  finite  way, 
gradually  cease  to  take  interest  in  any  except  sinners. 
All  the  drunkards  of  the  parish,  the  un wived  mothers, 


BENEVOLENCE OR   BENEFICENCE?  133 

the  scapegrace  children,  come  to  them,  and  by  canting 
phrases  of  oft-repeated  contrition,  and  voluble  promises 
of  never-fulfilled  amendment,  coax  out  of  them  the  ben- 
efits that  honest  people  never  get.  The  greater  the  sin- 
ner the  greater  the  saint,  is  either  really  or  ostensibly 
their  permanent  creed.  They  take  up  with  all  the 
scamps  in  the  parish,  while  the  respectable  x  working 
man — thank  Heaven,  there  is  still  many  a  one  in  En- 
gland, as  honorable  as  any  working  gentleman,  and 
often  as  true  a  gentleman  at  heart! — has  with  them 
no  chance  at  all. 

True,  these  so-called  Christians  have  always  plenty  of 
arguments  on  their  side ;  especially  the  parable  of  the 
Prodigal  Son,  and  the  "joy  in  heaven  over  one  sinner 
that  repenteth."  But  they  forget  that  the  prodigal 
when  his  father  met  him  was  no  longer  a  prodigal : 
he  had  forsaken  his  evil  ways,  never  to  return  to  them 
more.  Also,  that  the  "joy"  is  supposed  to  be  over  a 
repentant  sinner,  not  a  sinner  who  still  remains  in  sin. 
Christ,  in  His  diviriest  charity,  never  docs  more  for  of- 
fenders than  to  pardon  them,  until  they  cease  to  offend. 
"  Go,"  He  says ;  "  go  and  sin  no  more,  lest  a  worse  thing 
happen  unto  thee."  But  for  those  who  continue  to  sin 
there  is,  even  according  to  the  qnoters  of  Holy  Writ — 
often  so  egregiously  twisted  and  misapplied — a  worse 
thing ;  even  as  in  the  parable  of  the  fig-tree :  "  Cut  it 
clown  ;  why  cumbereth  it  the  ground  ?"  And  sometimes 


134  BENEVOLENCE — OR   BENEFICENCE? 

the  kindest,  wisest,  most  Christian  act  is — to  let  it  be 
cut  down. 

For  instance,  every  one  who  gives  money  to  a  con- 
firmed drunkard  or  profligate,  thereby  encouraging  him 
in  his  vices  ;  every  one  who,  for  any  reason,  however 
compassionate,  speaks  what  is  called  "  a  good  word  " 
for  a  person  whom  he  knows  to  be  bad,  condones  sin, 
and  is  guilty  of  the  result  that  follows.  His  lazy  laxity 
allows  these  cumberers  of  the  ground  to  take  the  life 
from  wholesome  trees.  And,  even  as  a  man  who  sits 
with  his  hands  folded,  and  allows  his  humble  neighbors 
to  wallow  in  dirt  like  pigs,  saying,  "  I  can't  help  it ;  it 
is  not  my  affair,"  may  one  day  have  to  see  ghastly  fever, 
bred  in  those  back  slums,  stalk  in  at  his  own  front  door, 
and  carry  off  his  best-beloved  child ;  so  any  one  who 
laughs  at  error  as  mere  "  folly,"  and  puts  a  plaster 
upon  ugly  sin,  connives  dangerously  at  both.  He  has 
shirked  what  was  unpleasant ;  he  has  been  too  lazy  to 
take  trouble ;  he  has  done  his  benevolence  in  the  easi- 
est way.  He  may  yet  have  to  pay  for  his  mistaken 
mercy  by  being  ground  under  the  ever-moving  wheel 
of  an  unerring  justice;  justice  which,  though  it  does 
not  always  reward,  assuredly  knows  the  way  to  punish. 

He  is  punished,  this  pseudo-benevolent  person.  He 
is  eaten  up  by  grasping,  needy,  ravenous  dependents. 
He  has  often  to  stand  helplessly  by  and  watch  the 
widening  spread  of  evils  which  he  might  have  stopped 


UKNEVOLENCE OR   BENEFICENCE?  135 

at  once  if  he  Lad  only  had  the  courage  to  take  hold  of 
vice  and  slay  it  with  a  strong,  firm  hand.  He  thinks 
himself  bitterly  wronged,  and  accuses  the  world  of 
shameful  ingratitude ;  it  does  not  strike  him  that  the 
world  really  owes  him  nothing,  since  what  he  did  was 
done  to  please  himself. 

This  especially  applies  to  certain  people,  who  for  a 
time  may  gain  much  outside  credit,  which  is  indeed  the 
thing  they  most  desire — those  who  delight  in  what  they 
call  "  magnificence."  They  it  is  who  always  give  a 
cabman  half-a-crown  when  a  shilling  is  his  right  fare ; 
who  distribute  money  right  and  left  in  gratuities  to 
servants  ;  who  always  make  the  handsomest  of  presents 
(especially  to  their  rich  friends),  and  like  to  head  every 
subscription-list  far  above  the  rest.  They  never  think 
that  the  cabman  they  overpay  will  grumble  at  the  next 
person  who  pays  him  his  right  fare  and  no  more ;  that 
nothing  so  degrades  or  even  offends  a  good  servant  as 
to  be  requited  in  money  for  a  simple  kindness ;  that 
the  worth  of  a  gift  is  nothing — the  spirit  of  it  every 
thing ;  and  that  to  see  your  neighbor's  name  down  in 
a  charity-list  for  a  larger  sum  than  either  he  or  you  can 
afford  is  much  more  apt  to  make  you  close  your  purse- 
strings  than  open  them. 

Your  "magnificent"  people  are  in  some  things  worse 
than  the  merely  lavish,  who  give  recklessly  of  that 
which  costs  them  nothing;  they  give  deliberately,  for 


136  BENEVOLENCE OR   BENEFICENCE? 

the  mere  credit  of  giving,  and  for  their  own  glorifi- 
cation. The  praise  of  men  is  mostly  their  sole  aim. 
That  "cup  of  cold  water"  which  the  Divine  Master 
named  so  tenderly  would  be  a  drink  quite  too  mean, 
too  discreditable  (to  themselves)  to  offer  unto  any  body. 
It  must  be  the  best  of  wine,  in  a  jeweled  goblet,  or 
must  not  be  offered  at  all. 

Their  notions  of  a  present,  too,  and  they  give  a  good 
many  of  them,  is  the  handsomest  thing  that  money  can 
purchase.  A  much  handsomer  thing  than  any  body 
else  has  given,  and  something  that  will  make  people 
cry  out,  "  Whose  gift  is  that  ?  What  a  very  generous 
person  he  must  be !"  But  the  suitableness  of  the  pres- 
ent, and  whether  the  recipient  needed  it  or  wished  for 
it,  is  quite  another  thing.  And  unless  the  said  recipi- 
ent, whether  pleased  or  not,  pretends  to  be  so,  and  over-- 
whelms him  with  gratitude  and  delight,  our  "  magnif- 
icent "  friend  is  exceedingly  offended. 

Speaking  of  this  matter  of  giving  presents,  it  is  cu- 
rious how  few  know  how  to  bestow  or  to  accept  one, 
whether  it  be  a  kindly  benefaction,  from  him  who 
does  not  need  to  him  who  does,  or  a  cadeau^  as  the 
French  term  it,  in  their  nice  distinction  of  language, 
.  a  "  keepsake "  between  two  people  who  are  equals,  if 
not  friends. 

I  remember  being  much  astonished  (it  was  in  the 
simple  days  of  youth,  when  a  good  deal  astonished 


BENEVOLENCE OK   BENEFICENCE?  137 

one  that  does  not  astonish  now)  by  hearing  a  conver- 
sation between  a  husband  and  wife,  who  had  just  re- 
ceived a  present  from  a  near  relative  whom  they  did 
not  very  much  care  for.  They  criticised  it,  they  found 
fault  with  it ;  they  speculated  as  to  what  was  the  per- 
son's intention  in  sending  it,  and  what  was  to  be  sent 
back  in  return. 

"  Of  course  we  must  send  something,  and  immedi- 
ately," said  the  gentleman,  who  was  of  the  "  magnif- 
icent" order;  "I  wish  we  could  find  out  exactly  what 
it  cost,  and  then  we  could  give  them  back  one  worth 
as  much  and  a  little  over."  "  Just  as  much  will  do,  I 
think,  my  dear,"  added  the  wife,  who,  like  most  wives 
of  "  magnificent "  men,  was  obliged  to  think  of  econ- 
omy. "  But  we  must  give  something ;  they  will  ex- 
pect it." 

This  expecting  something  in  return  for  a  present  is 
surely  one  of  the  meanest  of  feelings ;  yet  it  is  at  the 
root  of  half  the  gifts  given.  Marriage,  christening, 
birthday  presents  are  made,  not  because  people  wish 
to  give,  but  because  they  think  they  ought,  and  that 
other  people  will  expect  it  of  them.  Gifts,  irksome 
to  receive,  and  sometimes  actually  wrong  to  offer,  as 
either  draining  purses  already  too  slender,  or  irritat- 
ing those  who  can  afford  it  by  a  kind  of  feeling  that 
as  every  body  knows  they  can  afford  it,  they  must  give 
more  than  any  body  else.  If  the  "  happy  pair "  who 


138  BENEVOLENCE — OR   BENEFICENCE? 

exhibit  a  roomful  of  such  offerings  could  know  all  that 
they  subject  their  friends  to,  or  their  friends  foolishly 
subject  themselves  to,  in  this  matter,  they  would  turn 
with  disgust  from  most  of  the  presents  they  receive. 
I  am  not  sure  that  it  is  not  the  truest  kindness  as  well 
as  wisdom  to  say  point-blank,  "  I  never  give  any  thing 
to  any  body." 

Yet  a  gift  is  a  pleasant  thing,  rightly  given ;  most 
pleasant  and  dear  and  sacred,  whether  its  value  be 
much  or  little,  if  only  it  is  offered  with  the  heart,  and 
chosen  from  the  heart  —  chosen  with  care  and  pains, 
and  a  tender  anxiety  that  it  should  be  exactly  the  thing 
we  liked  and  wanted.  It  is  so  sweet  to  be  remem- 
bered and  taken  trouble  over,  even  in  the  smallest 
things.  But  gifts  carelessly  given — merely  to  gratify 
a  love  of  giving,  which  some  people  have  even  to  a 
disease  —  given  without  thought  of  whether  they  will 
be  useful  or  not,  whether  the  receiver  will  care  for 
them  or  not,  are,  between  friends,  often  a  great  vex- 
ation ;  between  strangers,  or  any  who  are  not  exactly 
equals,  a  burden  of  obligation  simply  intolerable. 

The  child,  with  its  innocent  sudden  kiss,  and  its  ear- 
nest, "  Thank  you  so  much  1"  for  a  doll's  sash,  or  a  pen- 
ny toy,  which  it  really  wanted,  comes  much  nearer 
the  true  theory  of  giving  and  receiving  than  hundreds 
of  people  who  weary  themselves  in  choosing  handsome 
presents,  or  in  returning  equivalents  for  the  same — 


BENEVOLENCE — OR   BENEFICENCE  ?  139 

presents  which,  the  instant  after  they  are  made,  be- 
come, like  stopped  checks,  "  of  no  value  to  any  body," 
not  even  to  the  possessor. 

These — like  the  charity  which  is  indifferent  to  error, 
and  ready  to  overlook  every  sin  that  is  not  personally 
inconvenient  to  itself,  as  well  as  the  generosity  which 
looks  not  to  the  advantage  of  its  object,  but  its  own— 
these  three  may  all  go  under  the  head  of  that  sort  of 
benevolence  which,  if  not  an  actual  crime,  is  a  very 
great  mistake  and  an  egregious  folly. 

Why  ? 

Here,  again,  we  come  to  the  root  of  things.  Why  ? 
Because  it  is  content  \vith  wishing  well,  instead  of 
doing  well.  Because  whatever  good  it  does  is  done, 
not  for  duty's  sake,  for  righteousness'  sake,  for  God's 
sake,  but  merely  for  its  own  sake  ;  to  gratify  its  vanity, 
to  ease  its  conscience,  to  heal  up  its  wounded  self-es-- 
teem  with  the  smooth  cataplasm  of  gratitude. 

But  true  beneficence  never  looks  for  gratitude  at  alL 
What  it  does  is  not  done  with  a  view  to  itself,  but 
solely  for  the  sake  of  that  other  whom  it  desires  to  ben- 
efit ;  and  above  all  for  His  sake  who  is  the  source  of 
all  charity.  There  is  a  deep  truth  in  the  passionate 
pleading  of  the  Irish  beggar :  "  Shure,  sir,  ye'll  do 
it ;  not  for  the  love  o'  me  —  for  the  love  o'  God." 
Therefore  real  beneficence,  which  does  all  its  good 
deeds  for  the  love  of  God,  is  neither  vainglorious  nor 


140  BENEVOLENCE — OR   BENEFICENCE  ? 

exacting  ;  not  easily  wounded,  and  never  offended.  It 
goes  straight  on,  doing  what  it  believes  to  be  right  and 
best,  without  any  reference  to  what  people  may  say  of 
it,  and  whether  the  recipients  of  its  bounty  are  grate- 
ful or  not. 

A  word  about  gratitude,  which  some  people  seem  to 
think  the  natural  result  and  reward  of  benevolence — 
to  follow  as  unerringly  as  day  follows  night.  Alas  ! 
they  had  much  better  say  as  night  follows  day ;  for 
kindly  deeds  as  often  end  in  darkness  as  in  light — at 
least  what  seems  like  darkness  to  our  human  eyes.  Un- 
less benevolence,  like  virtue,  can  be  its  own  reward,  it 
must  often  rest  satisfied  with  no  reward  at  all. 

What  matter  ?  Of  course,  gratitude  is  a  welcome 
thing ;  in  this  weary  world  a  most  refreshing  thing ; 
but  it  is  not  an  indispensable  thing.  It  warms  the 
heart  and  cheers  the  spirit,  but  it  has  nothing  to  do 
with  either  benevolence  or  beneficence,  nor  is  it  the  ori- 
gin or  end  of  either.  The  wisest  people  are  they  who, 
though  happy  to  get  thanks,  never  expect  them,  and  can 
do  without  them.  Such  may  be  deceived  and  disap- 
pointed, but  they  are  never  embittered ;  because  their 
motive  lay  deeper,  and  is  higher  than  any  thing  belong- 
ing to  this  world.  The  truly  benevolent  man  is  he 
who,  looking  on  all  his  charities  great  or  small,  says 
only — in  devout  repetition  of  his  Master's  words — "  I 
have  finished  the  work  which  Thou  gavest  me  to  do," 


BENEVOLENCE OR    BENEFICENCE  ?  141 

— not  that  which  I  gave  myself  to  do,  and  not  that 
which  I  did  for  myself,  but  that  which  Thou  gavest 
rne  and  I  have  done  for  Thee.  To  such  the  ..answer 
cornes,  even  as  in  Lowell's  touching  ballad  of  "Sir 
Launfal :" 

"The  Holy  Supper  is  kept  indeed 
In  what  we  share  with  another's  need 
Not  what  we  give,  but  what  we  share, 
For  the  gift  without  the  giver  is  bare ; 
Who  gives  himself  with  his  alms,  feeds  three  : 
Himself — his  hungering  neighbor — and  ME." 


Qcrttum  1). 


MY   BROTHER'S   KEEPER. 


V. 

MY  BROTHER'S  KEEPER. 


A  EE  we,  or  are  we  not — our  brother's  keeper  ?  That 
?—•  is,  to  what  extent  are  we  responsible  for  those 
beneath  us,  or  dependent  upon  us,  or  connected  with  us 
by  any  link  which  gives  us  power  with  regard  to  them 
or  influence  over  them  ? 

This  is,  I  think,  the  point  at  issue  between  those  who 
are  called  philanthropists,  and  those  others — well,  I  sup- 
pose no  one  would  voluntarily  dub  himself  misanthro- 
pist— but  those  who  refuse  to  "  bother  "  themselves  with 
their  brother's  affairs ;  to  whom  the  question,  "  Who  is 
my  neighbor  ?"  is  as  indifferent  as  the  naturally  succeed- 
ing one,  "  What  have  I  to  do  for  him  ?"  In  fact,  peo- 
ple who,  though  they  would  be  much  offended  if  you 
said  so,  are  of  the  same  type  as  the  most  respectable 
priest  and  Levite  who  preceded  the  good  Samaritan  in 
passing  by  him  who  "  fell  among  thieves." 

A  parable  often  misapplied,  since  many  of  the  way- 
laid sufferers  for  whom  our  sympathy  is  demanded  are 
very  often  thieves  themselves  :  the  weak,  the  selfish,  the 

G 


146 

un principled ;  who  live  by  robbing  honest  people,  and 
by  laying  on  others  the  burden  of  their  self-created 
woes.  But  it  is  not  of  them  I  have  now  to  speak,  but 
of  those  designated  by  the  word  "  brother." 

In  the  first  place,  who  is  our  brother  ? 

There  are  those  who  wTill  tell  us  it  is  the  negro — the 
South  Sea  Islander — the  "  heathen  Chinee  ;"  whom,  as 
the  first  of  moral  duties,  we  must  try  to  convert — (of 
course,  to  our  own  special  form  of  Christianity,  any 
other  being  worse  than  none,  which  a  little  complicates 
matters).  Nevertheless,  it  must  be  done.  And  conver- 
sion gained,  all  else  will  follow. 

Be  it  so.  Let  those  go  proselyting  who  feel  them- 
selves thereto  called.  There  is  work  enough  in  the 
world  for  all;  innumerable  "brothers" — and  very  few 
who  are  fit,  in  any  sense,  to  be  their  "  keepers."  But  let 
not  this  interesting  black  or  brown  brother  far  away 
shut  out  from  our  sight  the  white  brother  who  stands 
at  our  very  door.  Stand,  did  I  say  ?  He  crawls — he 
grovels — not  only  outside,  but  actually  within  our  doors. 
We  can  scarcely  take  a  step  without  treading  upon  him 
— even  though  we  may  shut  our  eyes  to  the  sight  of 
him. 

And  we  do  shut  our  eyes,  either  intentionally  or  unin- 
tentionally. We  prefer  looking  a  long  way  off — upon 
objects  picturesque  and  heroic.  The  "noble  savage" 
running  wild  in  his  "  native  woods  "  is  a  much  more  in- 


H7 

teresting  subject  of  civilization  than  Billy  the  washer- 
woman's boy,  especially  when  entering  our  family  as 
William  the  boy  in  buttons.  Yet,  perhaps,  he  no  less 
needs  the  care,  and  could  be  developed  into  at  least  as 
good  a  Christian,  and  at  a  somewhat  cheaper  rate.  And 
the  feminine  hearts  who  yearn  over  the  "  condition  of 
women  in  India"  would  find  as  worthy  an  object  for 
their  reformatory  sympathy  in  Jane  the  gardener's  wife, 
with  six  children,  living  in  two  rooms  upon  a  pound  a 
week ;  or  Emma  the  housemaid,  insanely  spending  all 
her  large  wrages  upon  dress,  and  leaving  herself  not  a 
half-penny  for  sickness  or  old  age. 

"Charity  begins  at  home" — the  old-fashioned  prov- 
erb used  to  say.  But  the  peculiarity  of  our  large-mind- 
ed modern  society  is  that  "  home  "  either  does  not  ex- 
ist, or  that  it  is  the  last  place  in  the  world  about  which 
charity  ever  troubles  itself. 

I  have  been  led  to  this  train  of  thought  by  two  arti- 
cles which  appeared  lately  in  a  well-known  magazine 
on  the  much-vexed  question  of  domestic  servants.  The 
writers  took  opposite  sides:  one  defended  the  lower 
class  against  the  upper ;  protested  against  the  extreme 
ill-usage  sustained  by  servants  in  general,  and  contend- 
ed for  their  "  privileges,"  averring  that  they  ought  to  be 
allowed  full  time  to  cultivate  their  intellects — and  that, 
among  other  refinements,  there  should  be  a  library  in 
every  pantry  and  a  piano-forte  in  every  kitchen.  The 


148 

opposing  paper  took  the  mistresses'  side — tlie  much- 
tried,  rnuch-enduring  mistresses ;  and,  so  far  from  al- 
lowing our  domestics  any  rights,  would  fain  have  re- 
duced servitude  to  its  original  meaning,  and  consider- 
ed servants  somewhat  as  the  ancients  considered  their 
slaves — an  altogether  different  order  of  beings  from 
themselves.  The  first  protested  loudly  that  we  were  all 
brothers ;  though  the  great  point — which  of  us  was  to 
be  "  our  brother's  keeper  " — was  left  untouched.  The 
second,  so  far  as  I  remember,  almost  denied  that  there 
was  a  common  human  nature  between  the  kitchen  and 
the  parlor. 

Both  meant  well,  I  verily  believe ;  and  both  had  a 
certain  justice  in  their  arguments.  But  the  real  truth, 
as  in  most  contests,  lay  between  the  two.  Let  us  consid- 
er it  a  little. 

Few  will  deny  the  melancholy  fact  that  the  servant 
question  is  growing  more  difficult  year  by  year.  Per- 
haps naturally  so,  since  every  class  is  rising  and  trying 
to  force  itself  into  the  class  above  it  —  a  not  ignoble 
aim,  if  it  at  the  same  time  educate  and  fit  itself  to  en- 
ter that  class;  but  it  mostly  does  not  do  this.  There- 
fore a  continual  struggle  goes  on — a  continual  pushing 
up  of  heterogeneous  elements  into  the  already  wildly 
seething  mass — and  the  result  is — chaos  ?  Let  us  hope 
not.  Let  us  trust  that  all  will  settle  in  time.  Provi- 
dence knows  its  own  business  much  better  than  we  do. 


MY  BROTHER'S  KEEPER.  149 

Still  we  must  do  our  business,  too,  and  do  it  our  very 
best.  Any  thing  short  of  our  best  is  setting  ourselves  in 
opposition — oh,  how  futile  ! — to  Providence,  and  conse- 
quently to  our  own  selves.  He  only  who  works  with 
God,  so  far  as  he  sees,  works  for  God,  and  for  himself 
at  the  same  time. 

Those  who  remember  the  servants  of  even  twenty-five 
years  ago  can  not  fail  to  discover  a  great  change  in  the 
whole  class — as  a  class.  For  less  work  is  done  by  each 

L  individual ;  and  far  more  wages  expected.  The  most 
faithful,  intelligent,  and  clever  servant  I  ever  knew  be- 
gan life  at  thirteen  years  old  as  maid-of -all- work  in  the 
family  of  a  gentleman — a  poor  one  certainly,  still  it 
was  "  a  gentleman's  family,"  consisting  of  himself,  his 
wife,  and  three  children.  Her  wages,  the  first  year  were 
three  pounds  per  annum.  What  would  be  thought  of 
such  a  "  place  "  nowadays  ?  Yet  it  turned  out  not  a 
bad  one.  The  girl  was  taken  literally  as  "one  of  the 
family."  The  mistress  trained  her;  the  little  ones  loved 
her ;  the  eldest  daughter  educated  her — aye,  up  to  a 
point  that  even  the  aforesaid  article  would  approve,  for 
she  could  read  and  understand  Shakespeare,  arid  write 
as  good  a  letter  as  most  young  ladies  when  they  leave 
school  and  marry.  She  never  married,  but  she  remained 
faithful  to  the  family  in  weal  and  woe — far  more  woe 
than  weal,  alas  ! — until  she  died,  but  not  until  she  had 
served  two  generations.  Her  grave  has  been  green  now 


150 

for  many  a  year,  yet  the  last  remnant  of  that  family 
never  hears  the  sound  of  her  name — a  very  common 
one,  "  Bessy  " — without  a  throb  of  remembrance  too 
sweet  for  tears. 

This  is  what  servants  used  to  be,  as  many  an  old  fam- 
ily tradition  will  prove.  What  are  they  now  ? 

As  an  answer  I  could  put  forward  two  illustrative 
anecdotes :  of  the  butler  who  threw  up  his  place  be- 
cause he  had  "  always  been  accustomed  to  have  a  sofa 
in  his  pantry ;"  and  the  parlor-maid  who,  having  accept- 
ed a  situation,  declined  to  go  because  she  and  her  lug- 
gage were  to  be  carried  from  the  station  in  a  spring- 
cart,  whereas  in  her  last  place  they  had  sent  the  carriage 
and  a  footman  to  meet  her.  These  are,  I  hope,  excep- 
tional instances,  but  we  all  know  what  our  own  and  our 
friends'  servants  are  in  the  main. 

As  to  dress,  for  instance.  If  extravagant  folly  of 
toilet  were  not  becoming  so  common  in  all  ranks,  we 
should  be  absolutely  startled  by  the  attire  of  our  cooks 
and  parlor-maids — on  Sundays  especially.  And  it  is  so 
utterly  out  of  proportion  to  their  means.  Fancy  our 
grandmothers  giving  Jenny  the  housemaid  to  Thomas 
the  gardener  to  settle  down  in  holy  matrimony  upon — 
say  a  pound  a  week;  and  they  are  seen  walking  to 
church — he  in  a  fine  black  suit,  and  she  in  a  light  silk 
gown,  tulle  bonnet  and  veil,  and  a  wreath  of  orange 
blossom !  Yet  such  has  been  the  costume  at  more  than 


151 

one  wedding  which,  has  lately  come  under  my  notice ; 
and  I  believe  it  is  the  usual  style  of  such  in  that  class. 

Then  as  to  eating  and  drinking ;  the  extent  to  which 
this  goes  on  in  large  and  wealthy  families  is  something 
incredible.  Stout  footmen,  dainty  ladies'-maids,  and 
under  servants  of  all  kinds,  expect  to  be  fed  with  the 
fat  of  the  land,  and  to  drink  in  proportion.  It  is  not 
enough  to  say  that  they  live  as  well  as  their  masters  and 
mistresses — they  often  live  much  better ;  the  kind  of 
fare  that  satisfied  twenty  or  forty  years  ago  would  be 
intolerable  now.  Expense  and  waste  they  never  think 
of ;  they  are  only  comers  and  goers  according  to  their 
own  convenience,  and  the  more  they  get  out  of  their 
"  places  "  during  their  temporary  stay  the  better. 

This,  too,  is  another  sad  change.  A  house  where  the 
servants  remain  is  becoming  such  an  exception  as  to  be 
quite  notable  in  the  neighborhood. 

"Why  did  I  come  after  your  place,  ma'am  ?"  answered 
a  decent  elderly  man,  applying  for  a  situation  as  garden- 
er. "  To  tell  you  the  truth,  I  heard  yours  was  a  place 
where  the  servants  stayed ;  so  I  thought  it  would  suit 
me,  and  my  wife  too,  and  I  came  after  it."  Of  course, 
he  was  taken,  and  will  probably  end  his  days  there. 

But  most  servants  are  rolling  stones  which  gather  no 
moss.  Nor  wish  it  even ;  they  prefer  moving  about. 
They  change  their  mistresses  as  easily  as  their  caps. 
The  idea  of  considering  themselves  as  members  of  the 


152  MY  BROTHER'S  KEEPER. 

family — to  stick  to  it,  as  it  to  them,  through  all  difficul- 
ties not  absolutely  overwhelming  —  would  be  held  as 
simply  ridiculous.  To  them  "  master "  is  merely  the 
man  who  pays,  and  "  missis "  the  woman  who  "  wor- 
rits." That  between  these  and  themselves  there  could 
be  any  common  interest,  or  deep  sympathy  of  any  kind, 
never  enters  their  imagination.  Nor,  alas !  does  it  into 
that  of  the  upper  half  of  the  household.  If  the  mis- 
tress, with  a  child  dangerously  ill  up-stairs,  is  shocked  to 
hear  the  unchecked  merriment  in  the  servants'  hall,  why 
does  she  forget  that  not  long  ago  she  refused  to  let  her 
cook  away  to  see  a  dying  sister  because  of  that  day's 
dinner-party.  "  It  would  have  been  so  very  inconvenient, 
you  know.  Afterward,  I  let  her  go  immediately/'  Yes, 
but — the  sister  was  dead. 

This  may  be  a  sharply  drawn  picture,  but,  I  ask,  is  it 
overdrawn?  Is  it  not  the  average  state  of  the  relation 
nowadays  between  masters  and  servants?  There  may 
be  strict  uprightness,  liberality,  even  kindness  on  the  one 
side,  and  duty  satisfactorily  done  on  the  other ;  but  of 
sympathy — the  common  human  bond  between  man  and 
man,  or  woman  and  woman — there  is  almost  none.  No- 
body gives  it,  and  nobody  expects  to  find  it. 

Why  is  this  ?  Or  can  it  be  the  reason — there  must  be 
a  reason — that  every  body  declares  it  is  almost  impossi- 
ble to  get  good  servants  ? 

May  I  suggest  that  perhaps  this  may  arise  from  the 


153 

fact  of  servants  finding  it  so  exceedingly  difficult  to  get 
good  masters  and  mistresses  ? 

By  good  I  mean  not  merely  good-natured,  well-mean- 
ing people,  but  those  who  have  a  deeply  rooted  conscien- 
tious sense  of  responsibility — who  believe  themselves  to 
be,  as  superiors,  constituted  by  God,  not  merely  the  rul- 
ers, but  the  guide  and  guard  of  their  inferiors;  and 
whose  life  is  spent  in  finding  out  the  best  way  in  which 
that  solemn  duty  can  be  fulfilled. 

In  every  age,  evil  as  well  as  good  takes  root  down- 
ward and  bears  fruit  upward.  All  reformations,  as  well 
as  all  corruptions,  begin  with  the  upper  class  and  de- 
scend to  the  lower.  Even  as  there  is  seldom  an  irre- 
deemable naughty  child  without  the  parents  being  in 
some  way  to  blame,  so  we  rarely  hear  of  a  household 
tormented  by  a  long  succession  of  bad  servants  without 
suspecting  that  possibly  the  master  and  mistress  may 
not  be  altogether  such  innocent  victims  as  they  imagine 
themselves. 

For  it  is  from  them,  the  heads  of  the  house,  that  the 
house  necessarily  takes  its  tone.  If  a  lady  spends  a 
large  proportion  of  her  income  on  milliners  and  dress- 
makers, how  can  she  issue  sumptuary  laws  to  her  cook 
and  housemaid  ?  If  a  gentleman  habitually  consumes 
as  much  wine  as  he  can  safely  drink — perhaps  a  little 
more,  though  he  is  never  so  ungenteel  as  actually  to  get 
"drunk"  --how  can  lie  blame  John  the  coachman  or 

G2 


154: 

William  the  gardener  that  they  do  get  drunk  —  they 
who  have  nothing  else  to  amuse  themselves  with  ?  For 
their  master  takes  no  care  to  supply  any  thing  that  they 
rationally  can  amuse  themselves  with,  being  as  indiffer- 
ent to  their  minds  as  he  is  to  their  bodies.  So  that  both 
are  kept  going  like  machinery,  ready  to  do  their  neces- 
sary work,  nothing  else  is  needed,  and  nothing  ever  in- 
quired into.  They,  the  master  and  mistress,  are  not 
their  "  brother's  "  keepers — they  are  only  his  employers. 
They  use  him,  criticise  him,  control  him,  are  even  kind 
to  him  in  a  sort  of  way,  but  they  have  no  sympathy  with 
him  whatever. 

This  is  apparently  the  weak  point — the  small  wheel 
broken — which  produces  most  of  the  jarring  in  the  pres- 
ent machinery  of  society.  The  tie  between  upper  and 
lower  classes  has  become  loosened — has  sunk  into  a  mere 
matter  of  convenience.  Not  that  the  superior  is  inten- 
tionally unkind ;  in  fact,  he  bestows  on  his  inferiors 
many  a  benefit ;  but  he  does  not  give  it,  or  exchange  it ; 
he  throws  it  at  him  much  as  you  wo uldt  throw  a  bone  at 
a  dog,  with  the  quiet  conviction,  "  Take  it — it  is  for  your 
good;  but  you  are  the  dog  and  I  am  the  man,  for-  all 
that." 

Is  this  right — or  necessary  ?  That  there  should  be 
distinctions  of  classes  is  necessary.  Rich  and  poor, 
masters  and  servants,  must  always  exist;  but  need  they 
be  pitted  against  each  other — the  one  ruling,  the  other 


155 

resisting ;  the  one  exacting,  the  other  denying,  to  the  ut- 
most of  their  mutual  power?  That  mysterious  link, 
which  can  bind  together  the  most  opposite  elements,  and 
which,  in  default  of  a  better  term,  I  have  called  sympa- 
thy— though  using  it  more  in  the  French  than  English 
meaning  of  the  word — is  altogether  wanting. 

Was  it  always  so?  In  olden  times, when  the  primi- 
tive institution  of  rude  slavery  softened  into  feudal  serv- 
itude—  the  weak  hiding  together  under  shelter  of  the 
strong,  and  the  ignorant  putting  themselves  under  the 
guidance  of  the  educated — undoubtedly  the  relation  was 
very  different.  The  line  of  division  between  class  and 
class  was  drawn  as  distinctly  as  now,  and  yet  the  bond 
was  much  closer  and  tenderer.  The  feudal  lord  had  his 
retainers,  the  lady  her  serving-maids.  These  she  in- 
structed in  all  domestic  duties,  even  as  he  trained  his 
men  in  the  field.  The  root  of  the  relationship  was,  of 
course,  mutual  advantage ;  but  it  blossomed  into  mutual 
kindliness,  and  bore  fruit  in  that  fidelity  which  is  not 
lessened  but  increased  by  the  consciousness  of  mutual 
dependence.  The  difference  of  rank  was,  so  far  as  we 
can  discover,  maintained  in  those  old  days  as  strongly  as 
now;  but  it  was  like  the  difference  between  parent  and 
child — where  the  one  exercises,  and  the  other  submits  to, 
an  authority  which  is  not  mere  arbitrary  rule,  but  wise 
control  and  generous  protection. 

This,  I  think,  is  the  point  which  all  shoot  wide  of  now- 


156  MY  BROTHER'S  KEEPER. 

adays;  the  magic  charm  which  nobody  can  find.  They 
will  not  recognize  that  the  kingly  relation  —  for  every 
head  of  a  household  must  be  a  king  therein;  nay,  an 
autocrat,  since  a  wise  autocracy  is  the  safest  and  sim- 
plest form  of  government — the  regal  relation  also  in- 
cludes the  parental.  The  Romans  understood  this  in  the 
words  "  paterfamilias,"  "  materf amilias  :"  "  f amilias  "  im- 
plying not  only  the  children,  but  the  servants.  Is  it  too 
startling  a  theory  to  assert  that  the  heads  of  a  large 
household  are  nearly  as  responsible  for  their  servants  as 
they  are  for  their  children  ?  and  that  the  servants  owe 
them  the  same  kind  of  duty  —  faithfulness,  gratitude, 
loving  obedience  ?  Not  blind  obedience,  but  a  clear- 
sighted submission  ;  which  must  be  won,  not  compelled  ; 
and  can  only  be  won  by  the  exercise  of  those  qualities 
— the  only  qualities  which  justify  one  human  being  in 
being  the  master  of  another.  This,  I  believe,  is  the 
principle  upon  which  we  are  constituted  "  our  brother's 
keeper."  A  principle  which  modern  masters  and  mis- 
tresses, who  take  their  servants  from  the  nearest  regis- 
ter-office, and  return  them  thence  wrhen  they  have  done 
with  them,  will  call  perfectly  Utopian.  Did  they  ever 
try  to  put  it  in  practice  ? 

In  the  first  place,  what  is  their  definition  of  a  servant  ? 
A  person  who  will  do  the  prescribed  work  in  the  most 
satisfactory  manner  for  reasonable  wages,  and  beyond 
that  give  as  little  trouble  as  possible.  Somebody  who 


157 

comes  when  convenient,  is  treated  as  convenient,  and  got 
rid  of  also  when  convenient  to  the  establishment.  If 
servants  "suit"  the  place,  or  the  place  suits  them,  they 
stay ;  if  not,  they  go ;  and  there  is  an  end  of  it.  The 
idea  that  they  "  enter  a  family,"  as  the  phrase  is,  to  be- 
come from  that  day  an  integral  portion  of  it;  to  share 
its  joys  and  sorrows,  labors  and  cares,  and  to  receive 
from  it  a  corresponding  amount  of  interest  and  sympa- 
thy, thereby  commencing  and  cementing  a  permanent 
tie  not  to  be  broken  except  by  serious  misconduct  or 
misfortune,  or  any  of  those  inevitables  which  no  one  can 
guard  against  —  this  old-fashioned  notion  never  occurs 
to  any  body. 

Hence  the  rashness  with  which  such  engagements  are 
formed.  The  carelessness  manifested  by  most  people  in 
engaging  their  servants  is  almost  inconceivable.  The 
"  place  "  is  applied  for — or  the  mistress  applies  at  a  reg- 
ister-office. Out  of  numerous  candidates  she  selects 
those  she  thinks  most  likely ;  the  "  character  "  is  sought 
and  supplied ;  if  that  is  satisfactory,  all  is  settled ;  and 
a  man  or  woman,  whom  nobody  knows  any  thing  of, 
is  thereupon  brought  into  the  family,  to  hold  in  it  the 
most  intimate  relation  possible.  Of  course,  such  an  ar- 
rangement may  succeed ;  but  the  chances  that  it  will 
not  succeed  are  enormous. 

This  formality  of  "getting  a  character"  has  often 
seemed  to  me  one  of  the  most  curious  delusions  that 


158  MY  BROTHER'S  KEEPER. 

sensible  people  labor  under.  When  written,  it  is  almost 
valueless :  any  body  can  forge  it,  or  even  giving  it  lona 
fide,  may  express  it  in  such  a  way  as  to  convey  any  thing 
but  the  real  truth.  Besides,  is  that  truth  the  real  truth  ? 
When  we  consider  the  prejudices,  the  vexations,  on  both 
sides,-  which  often  arise  in  parting  with  a  servant,  can 
we  always  depend  upon  a  faithful  statement,  or  upon 
those  who  make  it  ?  I  have  often  thought  that  instead 
of  inquiring  any  servant's  character,  we  ought  rather  to 
inquire  the  character  of  the  late  mistress. 

Besides,  as  a  rule,  a  really  efficient  servant  needs  no 
character  at  all.  Such  a  one  on  leaving  a  situation  is. 
sure  to  have  half-a-dozen  families  eager  to  secure  so  rare 
and  valuable  a  possession.  A  good  servant  never  lacks 
a  place;  a  good  master  or  mistress  rarely  finds  any 
want  of  good  servants.  Temporary  difficulties  may  be- 
fall both;  but  in  the  long  run  it  is  thus.  Even  as — if 
one  carefully  notices  the  course  of  the  world — every 
man,  be  he  religious  or  irreligious,  will  come,  at  the  mid- 
dle or  end  of  life,  to  the  same  conclusion  as  David  :  "  I 
have  been  young,  and  now  am  old ;  yet  have  I  not  seen 
the  righteous  forsaken,  nor  his  seed  begging  bread." 
Not  that  all  is  smooth  or  easy  or  fortunate ;  on  the  con- 
trary, "  Many  are  the  afflictions  of  the  righteous ;  but 
the  Lord  delivereth  him  out  of  them  all." 

And  so,  to  measure  small  things  by  great,  I  believe 
that  though  accidental  difficulties  may  arise,  a  good 


159 

servant  may  drift  into  a  bad  place ;  a  conscientious 
master  or  mistress  may  be  cheated  here  and  there  by 
unfaithful  servants — still,  in  the  long  run,  things  right 
themselves.  No  law  is  more  certain  in  its  ultimate 
working  than  that  which  affirms  that  all  people  find 
their  own  level  and  reap  their  own  deservings. 

But  to  come  to  practicalities — and  yet  I  believe  no 
practical  work  is  ever  done  so  well  as  when  it  has  a 
strong  spiritual  sense  at  the  core  of  it — what  is  the«first 
thing  to  be  considered  in  choosing  one's  servants  ?  I 
answer,  unhesitatingly — their  moral  nature. 

"What!"  I  hear  some  fashionable  mistress  exclaim, 
"  trouble  myself  about  the  moral  nature  of  John  the 
footman  or  Sarah  the  cook — or  even,  though  they  cotne 
Closer  in  contact  with  me,  of  my  housemaid,  nurse,  or 
lady's-maid  ?  Impossible  !  simply  ridiculous  !  So  that 
they  do  their  work  well,  and  don't  trouble  me,  that  is 
all  I  require." 

Is  it  all  ?  You  are  then  content  to  have  about  you 
continually  mere  machines,  the  motive  power  of  whose 
existence  you  are  utterly  ignorant  of?  What  hold 
have  you  upon  them  ?  what  guard  against  them  ?  what 
guarantee  for  virtue  or  preservative  from  vice  ?  Yice 
which,  say  what  you  like,  must  affect  you  and  yours, 
sometimes  in  the  very  closest  way. 

Nothing  is  more  remarkable  than  the  extreme  fool- 
hardiness,  to  say  the  least  of  it,  with  which  respectable 


160 

families  put  themselves  at  the  mercy  of  strange  serv- 
ants, of  whose  antecedents  they  know  nothing,  or  know 
only  that  they  are  capable  of  doing  their  allotted  work, 
are  "  trained  parlor-maids,"  "  good  plain  cooks,"  and  so 
on.  But  of  their  moral  characteristics,  their  tempers, 
principles,  habits — all  that  constitutes  the  difference  be- 
tween bad  people  and  good,  those  who  are  a  comfort 
and  help,  or  else  an  absolute  torment  and  curse  in  a 
household — the  heads  of  that  household  are  in  entire 
ignorance.  Yet  they  expect,  besides  efficiency  in  work, 
all  the  fidelity,  conscientiousness,  and  other  good  quali- 
ties which  they  would  have  found  in  a  person  whom 
they  had  known  all  their  lives,  who  was  trained  in  all 
their  ways,  and  accustomed  to  all  their  peculiarities. 

Do  they  never  consider  that  in  this,  as  in  most  things, 
we  only  get  what  we  earn,  and  get  nothing  without 
earning  it  ?  That  if  we  want  really  good  servants,  we 
must  make  them  such  ?  We  must  bring  them  up,  even 
as  we  bring  up  our  children,  with  the  same  care  and 
patience,  making  allowance  for  the  nice  distinctions  of 
character  in  every  human  being  ;  and,  above  all,  having 
the  same  sense  of  responsibility,  though  in  a  lesser  de- 
gree, that  we  have  concerning  our  own  family. 

To  this  end  it  is  advisable  to  take  young  servants, 
which  most  people  object  to.  They  prefer  domestics 
ready-made — that  is,  made  by  other  people,  who  have 
had  all  the  trouble  of  training  them.  But  these  can 


161 

never  suit  us  so  well,  or  have  the  same  personal  attach- 
ment for  us,  as  those  we  have  trained  ourselves. 

For  I  hold — strange  doctrine  nowadays  ! — that  per- 
sonal attachment  is  the  real  pivot  upon  which  all  do- 
mestic service  turns.  It  may  sound  very  ridiculous 
that  a  lady  should  try  to  win  the  hearts  of  her  cooks 
and  housemaids,  and  a  gentleman  trouble  himself  as  to 
whether  his  coachman  or  gardener  had  a  respectful  re- 
gard for  "  master."  Yet  otherwise  little  real  good  is 
effected  on  either  side. 

"Without  love,  all  service  becomes  mere  eye-service, 
or  at  best  a  cold  matter-of-fact  doing  one's  duty ;  any 
attempts  at  training  are  almost  useless ;  and  with  al- 
ready trained  and  efficient  servants,  their  very  efficiency 
is,  the  heart  being  wanting,  an  unsatisfactory  thing,  like 
being  served  by  the  two  hands  which  waited  upon  the 
Prince  in  the  fairy  tale  of  the  White  Cat.  Admi- 
rably competent  hands,  no  doubt,  but  a  poor  exchange 
for  the  bright  face  and  pleasant  voice  of  what  children 
call  "  a  person,"  and  a  person  that  loves  us. 

I  am  bold  enough  to  say  that  in  a  really  happy  and 
well-arranged  household  it  is  absolutely  indispensable 
that  the  servants  should  really  love  "  the  family,"  and 
be  loved  by  them.  Under  no  other  conditions  can  the 
duty  which  is  laid  upon  us  of  being  our  brother's  keep- 
er be  thoroughly  fulfilled.  And  how  is  this  to  be 
done? 


162 


MY   BROTHER  S    KEEPEK. 


"  I  can't  imagine  why  it  is  that  my  servants  never 
take  to  me,"  said  a  very  kind  but  reserved  mistress, 
complaining  to  another  who  was  more  happily  circum- 
stanced ;  "  I  am  sure  I  mean  them  well — would  do  all 
I  could  for  them,  only  somehow  I  never  know  how  to 
talk  to  them." 

That  is  the  very  reason.  Most  people  never  talk  to 
their  servants  at  all.  They  "  speak  "  to  them  with  pat- 
ronizing benignity,  they  order  them,  find  fault  with 
them,  or  sharply  scold  them ;  but  any  thing  beyond 
that,  any  thing  that  brings  the  two  human  beings  face 
to  face  as  human  beings,  such  as  cordial  praise  for  well- 
doing ;  quiet,  serious,  sorrowful  rebuke  for  ill-doing ; 
sympathy  in  trouble ;  and  last,  not  least,  an  equally 
quick  sympathy  in  their  pleasures  and  amusements — is 
a  thing  unthought  of  on  either  side.  Class  and  class 
go  on  their  parallel  lines,  close  together,  yet  eternally 
apart. 

It  is  sad  as  strange  sometimes  to  notice  the  way  in 
wilich  presumably  good  people  speak  to  servants,  either 
with  a  cold,  repellent  reserve,  or  a  furious  unreserve, 
such  as  they  would  never  use  toward  any  other.  Now 
he  who  flies  into  a  rage  and  insults  an  equal  may  be  a 
fool,  but  he  who  insults  an  inferior  is  worse — he  is  a 
coward.  Many  a  gentleman  in  his  stable,  and  many  a 
lady  in  her  kitchen  or  nursery,  would  do  well  to  pause 
before  condemning:  themselves  as  such. 


163 

Nevertheless,  to  "  spoil "  a  servant  is  as  dangerous  as 
spoiling  a  child.  In  both  cases  discipline  must  be  kept 
up.  The  head  of  a  household  is  justified  in  laying 
down  for  it  the  strictest  laws,  and  insisting  that  they 
shall  not  be  broken.  Mistresses  might  with  advantage 
be  very  much  severer  than  many  now  take  the  trouble 
to  be  against  waste,  overdressing,  overfeeding,  perqui- 
sites, visitors,  and  all  the  luxurious  items  which  make 
servants  so  expensive — to  the  family's  injury  and  their 
own.  And,  laws  once  laid  down,  no  alternative  must 
be  accepted.  "  Obey,  or  you  leave  my  service,"  is  the 
only  safe  rule. 

But  this  strictness  is  compatible  with  the  utmost  kind- 
liness— nay,  even  familiarity.  A  mistress  who  is  sure 
of  her  own  position,  and  safely  intrenched  in  her  own 
quiet  dignity,  may  be  almost  a  mother  to  her  servants 
without  fearing  from  them  the  slightest  over-familiarity. 
Kay,  she  will  not  lose  their  respect  by  actually  helping 
in  their  work,  or  at  least  showing  them  that  she  knows 
how  the  work  should  be  done,  as  was  the  habit  with  the 
ladies  of  olden  time.  A  cook  will  not  think  the  worse 
of  her  mistress  if,  instead  of  ringing  the  bell  and  scold- 
ing violently  over  an  ill-cooked  dinner,  she  descends  to 
the  kitchen  and  takes  the  pains  to  explain  all  the  defi- 
ciencies of  to-day,  showing  how  they  may  be  remedied 
to-morrow.  And  if  this  is  done  carefully  and  kindly, 
the  chances  are  that  they  will  be  remedied ;  and  a  lit- 


164 


MY   BROTHER'S    KEEPER. 


tie  temporary  trouble  will  avoid  endless  trouble  after- 
ward. 

Fault-finding  is  inevitable ;  reproof,  sharp  and  unmis- 
takable, is  sometimes  necessary — nay,  salutary  ;  dismis- 
sion, instant  and  sudden,  without  hope  of  reprieve  or 
forgiveness,  may  occasionally  be  the  only  course  possi- 
ble ;  but  no  head  of  a  household  is  justified  in  using  to- 
ward any  of  its  members  one  rough  or  harsh  or  con- 
temptuous word.  The  mistress  who  scolds,  and  the 
master  who  swears  at  a  servant,  at  once  put  themselves 
in  a  false  position,  sink  from  their  true  dignity,  and  de- 
serve any  impertinence  they  get. 

"  Impertinence  !"  I  once  heard  remarked  by  a  lady, 
a  house-mother  for  many  years;  "why,  I  never  had  an 
impertinent  word  from  a  servant  in  my  life." 

Of  course  not,  because  in  all  her  dealings  with  them 

J  O 

she  herself  was  scrupulously  courteous — as  courteous  as 
she  would  have  been  to  any  of  her  equals,  friends,  or  ac- 
quaintances. She  had  sense  to  see  that,  putting  aside 
the  duty  of  it,  one  of  the  chief  differences  between  class 
and  class,  superior  and  inferior,  educated  and  unedu- 
cated, is  this  unvarying  politeness.  I  shall  never  forget 
watching  an  altercation  between  two  London  omnibus 
drivers — the  one  heaping  on  the  other  every  opprobri- 
ous name  he  could  think  of ;  while  his  rival,  sitting 
calmly  on  the  box,  listened  in  silence,  then  turned  round 
to  reply,  "  And  you — you're  a  "• — he  paused — "  you're 


165 

a  gentleman  !"  The  satire  cut  sharp.  Omnibus  No.  1 
drove  away  amid  shouts  of  laughter,  mingled  with  hiss- 
es ;  omnibus  No.  2  remained  master  of  the  field. 

So,  whatever  may  be  the  conduct  of  her  servants,  the 
"  missis  "  loses  her  last  hold  over  them  if,  however  pro- 
voked, she  allows  them  by  any  word  or  deed  of  hers  to 
doubt  that  she  is  a  lady. 

And  servants  have  a  far  keener  appreciation  of  a 
"  real  lady,"  as  they  call  it,  than  we  give  them  credit 
for.  They  seldom  fail  to  distinguish  between  the  born 
gentlewoman,  however  poor,  and  the  nouveau  riche, 
whom  only  her  riches  make  different  from  themselves. 
They  are  sharp  enough  to  see  that,  as  a  rule,  the  born  or 
educated  gentlewoman,  sure  of  herself  and  her  position, 
will  treat  them  much  more  familiarly  and  kindly  than 
the  other.  And  this  kindness,  even  unaccompanied  by 
tangible  benefactions,  what  a  powerful  agent  it  is  ! 

Of  course,  there  are  those  whom  we  may  emphatical- 
ly term  "  the  lower  classes,"  who  seem  to  consider  the 
upper  class  not  only  their  keepers,  but  their  legitimate 
prey.  But  there  are  others,  over  whom  gentleness  of 
speech,  thoughtf  ulness  in  word  and  act,  a  desire  to  save 
them  trouble,  a  little  pains  taken  to  procure  them  some 
innocent  pleasure,  has  a  thousand  times  more  influence 
than  gifts,  or  even  great  benefits  carelessly  bestowed. 

And  here,  among  the  duties  of  heads  of  families  I 
would  include  one,  too  often  overlooked— that  of  giving 


166 

their  servants  a  fair  amount  of  actual  pleasure.  "  All 
work  and  no  play  makes  Jack  a  dull  boy,"  and  the 
kitchen  requires  relaxation  as  well  as  the  parlor.  Not 
an  occasional  "  day  out,"  grudgingly  given,  and  with  a 
complete  indifference  as  to  where  and  how  it  is  spent, 
but  a  certain  amount  of  variety  and  amusement  regu- 
larly provided. 

The  question  is  what  this  should  be ;  and  there  each 
individual  family  must  decide  for  itself.  I  differ  from 
that  eloquent  defender  of  servants'  rights  who  would 
put  the  piano-forte  side  by  side  with  the  dresser,  and 
mix  elegant  literature  with  the  cleaning  of  saucepans ; 
but  I  do  think  that  any  servant  with  an  ear  for  music 
or  a  taste  for  reading  should  be  encouraged  in  every 
possible  way  that  does  not  interfere  with  daily  duty. 
"  Work  first,  pleasure  afterward,"  should  be  the  mis- 
tress's creed,  for  herself,  her  children,  her  servants ;  and 
she  will  generally  find  the  work  all  the  better  done  for 
not  forgetting  the  pleasure. 

Ignorance  is  at  the  root  of  half  the  errors  of  this 
world — errors  which  soon  develop  into  actual  sins.  In 
spite  of  the  not  unfrequently  given  opinion  that  it  is  a 
mistake  to  educate  our  inferiors,  and  that  the  march  of 
intellect  of  late  years  has  been  the  cause  of  most  of  the 
evils  from  which  we  now  suffer,  I  think  it  will  always  be 
found  that  the  cleverer  and  better  educated  servants  are, 
the  greater  help  and  comfort  they  prove  in  a  household. 


167 

And  oh,  what  a  help,  what  a  comfort !  "  Better  is  a 
friend  that  is  near  than  a  brother  afar  off,"  says  Solo- 
mon. And  often,  in  the  cares,  worries,  and  hard  experi- 
ences of  life,  far  better  than  even  the  friends  outside 
the  house  are  the  faithful  servants  within  it,  who  offer 
us  no  obtrusive  sympathy,  no  well-meant  yet  utterly  use- 
less and  troublesome  advice,  but  simply  do  what  we  tell 
them,  or  know  us  well  enough  to  do  what  we  want  with- 
out our  telling;  and  by  their  regular  mechanical  ways 
make  things  smooth  and  comfortable  about  us,  thereby 
creating  an  unconscious  sense  of  repose  amid  the  sharp- 
est trials.  If  I  were  to  name  the  greatest  domestic  bless- 
ing that  the  mother  of  a  family  can  have  next  to  a 
good  and  dutiful  child,  it  is  a  faithful  servant. 

But,  as  I  have  said  before,  the  blessing  must  be  earn- 
ed. And  even  in  these  days  it  is  in  every  one's  power 
to  earn  it.  Even  if  the  present  generation  has  so  great- 
ly deteriorated  that  a  satisfactory  trained  servant  is  al- 
most impossible  to  find,  there  is  always  the  raw  mate- 
rial, the  new  generation,  to  work  upon.  Every  mistress 
of  a  household,  every  clergyman  of  a  parish,  with  other 
responsible  agents  who  form  the  centre  of  a  circle  of 
dependents,  may  with  a  little  pains  keep  their  eyes  upon 
all  the  gro wing-up  girls  and  boys  around  them ;  catch 
them  early  and  guide  them  for  good  in  all  sorts  of  prac- 
tical ways.  Of  course  this  gives  trouble — every  thing 
in  life  gives  trouble ;  it  requires  common-sense  and  pa- 


168 

tience,  qualities  not  too  abundant  in  this  world.  But 
the  thing  can  be  done,  and  those  who  do  it  will  rarely 
fail  to  reap  the  benefit.  For  it  is  one  of  those  forms  of 
charity  which  pays  itself — "  small  profits  and  quick  re- 
turns." And  though  this  may  be  a  mean  reason  to  urge, 
just  like  the  maxim  that  honesty  is  the  best  policy,  still 
there  are  people  in  this  world  who  will  not  be  the  less 
charitable  for  knowing  that  charity  is  a  good  invest- 
ment. 

It  is  especially  so — when  beginning  at  home  it  goes 
on  to  widen  into  the  circles  nearest  home.  There  is  a 
subject  which  has  been  well  talked  over  in  public  meet- 
ings, well  discussed  in  newspapers,  for  the  last  few 
years,  yet  remains  pretty  nearly  where  it  stood  when 
well-to-do-people  first  began  to  open  their  eyes  to  it — 
the  condition  of  the  poor  at  their  gates. 

The  question,  Am  I  my  brother's  keeper  ?  is  as  seri- 
ous to  the  rich  man  with  regard  to  the  dependents  out- 
side his  doors  as  within  them.  This,  setting  aside  the 
question  of  their  spiritual  state.  I  do  not  hold  with 
those  who  administer  tracts  first  and  food  afterward ; 
and  I  incline  to  believe  that  the  washing  of  the  soul  is 
very  useless  until  the  body  has  been  well  treated  with 
soap  and  water.  Each  earnest  man  has  his  own  pet 
theory  for  dealing  with  the  spiritual  condition  of  those 
about  him,  but  for  their  physical  state,  so  far  as  he  can 
affect  it,  every  man  is  answerable. 


MY  BROTHER'S  KEEPER.  169 

Not  in  a  large  way.  The  great  error  of  benevolent 
people  nowadays  is  that  they  will  do  every  thing  largely. 
They  begin  far  off,  instead  of  near  at  hand.  They  will 
subscribe  thousands  of  pounds  for  the  famine  in  India, 
the  widows  and  orphans  of  a  shipwreck  or  a  colliery  ac- 
cident, the  presenting  of  a  testimonial  to  the  widow  and 
children  of  some  notable  man,  who  in  most  cases  ought 
to  have  himself  provided  for  his  belongings;  but  the 
duty  of  seeing  that  the  two  or  three  families  wrho  de- 
pend on  them  have  enough  wages  to  live  upon,  a  decent 
house  to  live  in,  and  some  kindly  supervision  and  in- 
struction to  help  them  to  live  a  sanitary  and  virtuous 
life,  is  far  too  small  a  thing  for  your  great  philanthro- 
pists. 

Yet  if  they  would  manage  to  do  this,  and  only  this — 
just  as  every  one  in  a  large  city  is  compelled  to  sweep 
the  snow  from  his  own  door-step — what  an  aggregate  of 
advantage  would  be  reached !  Each  large  household  is 
a  nucleus,  around  which  gather,  of  necessity,  several 
smaller  ones.  Coachman,  groom,  gardener,  laborer,  out- 
door servants  of  every  sort,  must  all  trust  for  their  sub- 
sistence to  the  great  family.  Thus  every  man  with  an 
income  of  from  one  thousand  to  indefinite  thousands  per 
annum  has  inevitably  a  certain  number,  more  or  less,  of 
human  souls  and  bodies  dependent  on  him  for  their  well- 
being.  Is  he  conscious  of  the  responsibility  ?  Does  he 
recognize  that  in  this,  at  least,  he  is  his  brother's  keeper  ? 

H 


170  MY  BEOTHEE'S  KEEPEE.  , 

In  large  towns  things  are  different.  Though  the  poor 
hang  festering  upon  the  very  robe's  hem  of  the  rich,  and 
scarcely  any  grand  street  or  square  but  has  a  wretched 
mews  or  back  alley  behind  it,  still  the  gulf  between  the 
two  is  so  great  that  it  is  difficult  to  pass  it.  Then,  too, 
the  population  is  so  migratory  —  here  to-day,  gone  to- 
morrow— that  any  lasting  influence  is  almost  impossible. 
The  evils  only  too  possible — and  rich  neighbors  would 
do  well  for  their  own  sakes  not  to  forget  this— are  the 
crimes  that  lurk,  the  diseases  that  breed,  in  these  miser- 
able, homeless  homes. 

Some  people  have  been  bold  enough  to  attempt  a 
remedy.  Some  noble,  self-denying  souls  have  gone 
from  end  to  end  of  these  courts  and  alleys,  cleansing 
and  reviving,  pouring  through  them  a  wholesome  stream 
of  beneficence,  which  God  grant  may  never  run  dry. 
For  in  our  large  cities  this  melancholy  condition  of 
things  is  inevitable.  All  honor  be  to  them  who  at- 
tempt— not  a  cure,  alas !  but  even  an  amelioration. 

However,-  in  the  country  our  landowners  and  large 
householders  have  no  excuse  for  their  sins.  For  years, 
ever  since  Charles  Kingsley  wrote  his  "  Yeast,"  in  which 
the  noble  girl,  Argemone,  dies  of  a  fever  caught  at  the 
miserable  cottages  which  had  been  left  year  after  year 
undrained,  unrepaired,  a  hot-bed  of  disease  and  conta- 
gion, the  same  thing  has  been  going  on  in  country  vil- 
lages, lovely  and  picturesque  to  the  eye,  but,  if  you  look 


171 

further,  full  of  all  things  foul  and  vile.  It  is  as  bad 
or  worse  in  new-built  suburban  neighborhoods,  where 
wealthy  residents  have  been  so  anxious  to  drive  uncom- 
fortable neighbors  away  that  there  are  literally  no  cot- 
tages. The  mechanic  has  to  go  to  his  work,  or  the  out- 
door servant  to  his  daily  calling,  miles  and  miles;  and 
even  then  house  accommodation  is  as  wretched  as  it  is 
limited  ;  several  families — not  of  the  very  poor,  but  of 
people  able  to  pay  for  decent  accommodation,  if  they 
could  only  get  it  —  are  huddled  together  in  some  ill- 
drained,  ill-ventilated,  and  worse  built  house,  subdivid- 
ed and  sublet  to  the  last  possibility. 

As  the  neighborhood  increases,  and  with  it  the  abso- 
lute necessity  for  a  certain  number  of  the  poor  to  serve 
the  rich,  their  need  of  house-room  increases  too.  So 
great  is  the  press  of  tenants  that  rents  rise;  grasping 
builders  run  up,  on  speculation,  wretched  strings  of  cot- 
tages, bran-new  and  taking  on  the  outside — quite  "  gen- 
teel residences  "  to  look  at — but  within  every  conceiva- 
ble want  and  abomination.  However  bad  great  towns 
may  be,  any  body  who  examines  the  dwelling-houses  of 
—I  will  not  say  the  poor,  but  the  working  classes — in 
the  country,  has  good  need  to  turn  to  all  their  "  breth- 
ren "  who  have  money  in  hand,  and  ask  why,  when 
building  "palatial  mansions"  for  themselves,  or  even 
stately  churches  for — is  it  for  Him  who  expressly  says 
He  "  dwells  not  in  houses  made  with  hands  ?" — they 


172 

can  not  spare  a  few  hundred  pounds  to  build  a  few  de- 
cent cottages  for  their  humbler  neighbors?  Simple, 
solid  cottages,  where  the  wind  does  not  whistle  through 
one-brick  walls,  nor  the  rain  soak  through  leaky  win- 
dows, and  the  gaudy  papering  drop  off  with  damp ; 
where  water  supply  and  house  drainage  do  not  mingle 
— even  as  the  respectable  and  the  vile,  the  provident 
and  the  improvident,  the  sober  and  the  drunkard,  are 
often  forced  to  mingle  in  these  wretched  homes.  Con- 
sequently the  best-intentioned  helper,  the  most  judicious 
friend,  find  it  difficult  to  choose  between  the  bad  and  the 
good,  the  careful  and  the  untidy,  those  who  deserve  to 
be  aided  and  encouraged  and  those  whom  any  assist- 
ance makes  only  more  helpless  and  more  undeserving. 

Nevertheless,  we  are  still  our  brother's  keeper.  Not 
our  seventeenth  cousin — black,  olive,  or  brown — but  our 
brother  who  lives  next  door  to  us,  and  for  whom  we 
ought  to  do  our  very  best  before  we  go  further.  There- 
fore, I  say,  let  every  man  sweep  his  own  door-step  clean. 
Let  him  take  a  little  trouble  to  use  among  his  immediate 
dependents  all  the  influence  his  position  gives  him.  Let 
him  try  to  make  them  good,  if  he  can ;  but  at  any  rate 
let  him  do  his  utmost  to  make  them  comfortable.  I 
have  heard  it  said  that  a  thief  is  not  half  so  likely  to 
steal  when  he  has  got  a  clean  shirt  on ;  and  I  believe 
the  master  who  takes  pains  to  provide  his  servants  with 
decent  houses,  safe  from  malaria,  free  from  overcrowd- 


173 

ing — nay,  who  even  condescends  to  look  in  and  see  that 
every  thing  is  neat  and  convenient,  taking  an  interest  in 
the  papers  on  the  walls  and  the  flowers  in  the  gardens — 
would  soon  cease  to  complain  that  they  wasted  or  pec- 
ulated his  substance,  or  spent  their  own  in  the  skittle- 
ground  and  the  tap-room. 

But  in  this  matter  no  absolute  laws  can  be  laid  down, 
no  minutiae  particularized.  The  subject  is  so  wide,  and 
each  case  must  be  judged  on  its  own  merits.  Every 
man  and  woman  must  decide  individually  how  far  for- 
tune has  constituted  them  their  brother's  keeper,  and  to 
what  extent  they  are  fulfilling  that  trust.  How  it  should 
be  fulfilled  they  alone  can  tell.  It  lies  between  them 
and  their  consciences ;  or,  to  speak  more  solemnly,  be- 
tween them  and  their  God. 

"  Those  whom  Thou  hast  given  me,"  said  the  divinest 
Master  that  ever  walked  this  earth,  of  the  men  who  in- 
stinctively called  Him  by  that  name.  And  though  in 
this  cynical  generation  it  may  provoke  a  smile  —  the 
mere  notion  that  our  hired  servants,  our  followers  and 
dependents,  are  given  to  us  by  God,  that  we  may  be  His 
agents  in  guiding  and  helping  them — still  the  fact,  if  it 
be  a  fact,  remains  the  same,  whether  we  believe  it  or 
not.  And  I  think  it  would  be  a  consolation  at  many  a 
death-bed  —  death-beds  watched  and  soothed  by  some 
long-tried,  faithful  servant,  and  oftentimes  only  a  serv- 
ant— to  look  back  through  the  nearly  ended  life  upon  a 


174: 


MY    BKOTIIER  S   KEEPER. 


few  waifs  and  strays  rescued,  a  few  young  souls  guided 
in  the  right  way,  sufferers  saved  from  worse  suffering, 
honest  "  brothers  "  and  sisters  helped,  strengthened,  and 
rewarded.  The  wrorld  may  never  know  it,  for  it  is  a 
kind  of  beneficence  which  does  not  show  outside ;  but  I 
can  imagine  such  a  man  or  woman — master  or  mistress 
— echoing  without  any  pride,  but  with  a  sort  of  thank- 
ful gladness,  the  momentous  words,  "  Those  that  Thou 
gavest  me  I  have  kept :  and  none  of  them  is  lost." 


Sermon  t)Jf.  anb  Cast. 
GATHER   UP  THE    FRAGMENTS. 


VI. 

GATHER  UP  THE  FRAGMENTS. 

T  SHOULD  premise  of  tins  sermon  that  it  is  not  a 
-*-  very  cheerful  one,  nor  meant  for  the  very  young. 
They,  to  whom  joy  seems  as  interminable  as  sorrow  at 
the  time,  will  neither  listen  to  it  nor  believe  it.  But 
their  elders  who  may  have  experienced  its  truth,  and 
had  strength  to  accept  it  as  such,  may  find  a  certain 
calm  even  in  its  sadness.  For  these  I  write ;  not  those, 
until  in  their  turn  they  have  proved  the  same. 

"  Gather  up  the  fragments  that  remain,  that  nothing 
be  lost."  So  once  said  the  Divine  Master,  after  feeding 
His  hungering  five  thousand.  How  often,  even  without 
relation  to  the  circumstances  under  which  they  were 
first  uttered,  do  the  mere  words  flash  across  one's  mind 
in  various  crises  of  life ;  words  full  of  deep  meaning — 
solemn  with  pathetic  warning. 

For  to  how  few  has  existence  been  any  thing  like  per- 
fect, leaving  no  fragments  to  be  gathered  up !  Who 
can  say  he  has  attained  all  his  desires,  fulfilled  all  his 
youth's  promises?  looks  back  on  nothing  he  regrets, 

11  a 


178  GATHER  UP  THE  FRAGMENTS. 

nor  desires  to  add  any  thing  to  what  he  has  accom- 
plished ? 

How  many  lives  are,  so  to  speak,  mere  relics  of  an 
ended  feast,  fragments  which  may  be  either  left  to  waste, 
or  be  taken  up  and  made  the  most  of.  For  we  can  not 
die  just  when  we  wish  it,  and  because  we  wish  it.  The 
fact  may  be  very  unromantic,  but  it  is  a  fact  that  a  too 
large  dinner  or  a  false  step  on  the  stairs  kills  much 
more  easily  than  a  great  sorrow.  Nature  compels  us  to 
live  on,  even  with  broken  hearts  as  with  lopped-off  mem- 
bers. True,  we  are  never  quite  the  same  again ;  never 
the  complete  human  being ;  but  we  may  still  be  a  very 
respectable,  healthy  human  being,  capable  of  living  out 
our  three-score  years  and  ten  with  tolerable  comfort 
after  all. 

Of  course  this  is  very  uninteresting.  It  is  not  the 
creed  of  novels  and  romances.  There  every  body  is  hap- 
py and  married,  or  unhappy  and  dies.  A  cynic  might 
question  whether,  in  his  grand  solution  of  all  mundane 
difficulties,  to  transpose  the  adjectives,  retaining  the 
verbs,  would  not  be  much  nearer  the  truth ;  since  death 
ends  our  afflictions,  and  marriage  very  often  begins  them. 
But  your  cynics  are  the  most  narrow-visioned  of  all  phi- 
losophers. Let  them  pass.  Safer  and  better  is  it  to  be- 
lieve that  every  one  may,  if  he  choose,  attain  to  a  cer- 
tain amount  of  happiness — enough  to  brighten  life,  and 
make  it  not  only  endurable,  but  nobly  useful,  until  the 


GATHER  UP  THE  FRAGMENTS.  179 

end.  But  entire  felicity  is  the  lot  of  none,  and  more- 
over was  never  meant  to  be. 

Until  we  have  learned  to  accept  this  fact,  reverently, 
humbly,  not  asking  the  why  and  wherefore,  which  we  can 
never  by  any  possibility  find  out — until  then  our  soul's 
education,  the  great  purpose  of  our  being  in  the  body 
at  all,  is  not  even  begun.  We  are  still  in  the  ABC 
of  existence,  and  many  a  bitter  tear  shall  we  have  to 
shed,  many  an  angry  fit  of  resistance  to  both  lessons  and 
Teacher,  many  a  cruel  craving  after  sunshiny  play  and 
delicious  laziness,  will  be  our  portion  till  we  are  ad- 
vanced enough  to  understand  why  we  are  thus  taught. 

It  is  curious,  if  it  were  not  so  sad,  to  notice  how  many 
years  of  fruitful  youth  we  spend  less  in  learning  than  in 
wondering  why  we  are  compelled  to  learn — wrhy  we  can 
not  be  left  to  do  just  as  we  like,  having  every  thing  to 
enjoy  and  nothing  to  suffer.  For,  whether  we  confess 
it  or  not,  most  of  us  start  in  life  with  the  conviction  that 
Providence  somehow  owes  us  a  great  debt  of  felicity, 
and  if  He  do  not  pay  it,  there  must  be  something  rad- 
ically wrong  —  not  with  ourselves,  of  course:  in  youth 
the  last  person  we  doubt  is  ourself — but  with  the  whole 
management  of  the  universe.  "Here  I  am,"  the  young 
man  or  maiden  soliloquizes.  "  I  wish  to  be  happy  ;  it  is 
Heaven's  business  to  make  me  happy — me  individually, 
without  reference  to  the  rest  of  the  world,  and  whether 
or  not  I  choose  to  obey  the  laws  laid  down  for  the  gen- 


180          GATHER  UP  THE  FEAGMENTS. 

eral  good.  I  am  I;  every  blessing  sent  me  I  take  as 
my  right ;  every  misfortune  that  befalls  me  is  a  cruelty 
or  an  injustice." 

Odd  as  this  reads,  put  so  plainly,  still  I  believe  it  is,  if 
the/  will  seriously  examine  themselves,  the  attitude  that 
most  young  people  take  toward  Providence  and  the 
world  in  general  while  they  are  still  young. 

A  comfortable  doctrine,  but  haying  one  fault,  in  com- 
mon with  many  other  doctrines  conceived  out  of  the  ar- 
rogant egotism  of  the  human  heart — it  is  not  true. 

"  This  God  is  our  God,"  exclaims  the  Psalmist,  add- 
ing, joyfully,  "  He  will  be  our  guide  unto  death."  Aye, 
but  He  will  also  be  the  guide  of  millions  more,  equally 
His  children,  with  whom  we  must  take  our  lot ;  every 
minute  portion  of  His  creation  being  liable  to  be  made 
subservient  to  the  working  of  the  whole.  A  working 
which,  if  not  entirely  by  chance  and  for  evil,  must  nec- 
essarily be  by  design,  and  for  the  general  good  of  the 
whole.  Any  other  theory  of  happiness  strikes  a  blow  at 
the  root  of  all  religious  faith  —  the  sense  of  a  divine 
Fatherhood,  not  limited  or  personal,  but  unlimited  and 
universal. 

For  it  is  God's  relation  to  us,  not  ours  to  Him,  which 
is  the  vital  question.  The  great  craving  of  humanity  is 
—we  want  a,  God  to  believe  in.  What  He  wants  with 
us  or  does  with  us  is  a  secondary  thing ;  being  God,  He 
is  sure  to  do  right.  I  have  sometimes  smiled  to  hear 


GATIIEK    UP   THE    FRAGMENTS.  181 

deeply  religious  people  bless  the  Lord  "  for  saving  my 
poor  soul."  Why  that  is  the  very  last  thing  a  creature 
with  a  spark  of  His  nature  dwelling  in  it  would  dream 
of  blessing  Him  for,  or  that  He  would  accept  as  a  fit 
thanksgiving.  Especially  if  that  salvation  involved,  as 
it  usually  does,  the  supposed  condemnation  of  unknown 
millions,  including  many  dear  friends  of  the  devout 
thanksgiver.  That  all  religion  should  consist  merely  in 
the  saving  of  one's  own  individual  soul !  Such  a  creed 
is,  simply  the  carrying  out  spiritually  of  that  much  de- 
spised sentiment,  "  Self-preservation  is  the  first  law  of 
nature ;"  and  the  followers  of  it  are  as  purely  selfish  as 
the  wrecked  sailor  who,  seizing  for  himself  a  spar  or  a 
hencoop — nay,  let  us  say  at  once,  a  comfortable  boat — 
calmly  watches  all  his  mates  go  down.  For  this,  plainly 
put,  is  the  position  of  many  an  earnest  worshiper  to- 
ward his  self-invented  God.  But  what  a  worshiper! 
and  oh,  not  to  speak  it  profanely,  what  a  God ! 

You  will  perceive  this  sermon  is  clearly  "out  of 
church,"  and  would  put  me  outside  the  pale  of  many 
churches.  Not,  I  trust,  outside  that  of  the  Church  invis- 
ible, spread  silently  over  the  whole  visible  world.  Be- 
cause "Gather  up  the  fragments"  is  a  text  which  it  is 
useless  for  me  to  preach  upon  or  you  to  listen  to  unless 
we  both  have  a  strong  spiritual  sense  —  a  conviction  of 
the  nothingness  of  all  things  human,  except  those  which 
bind  the  soul  to  its  Maker,  which  we  call  religious  faith. 


182          GATHER  UP  THE  FRAGMENTS. 

And  though  I  am  far  from  believing  that  the  present 
world  is  nothing,  and  the  world  to  come  every  thing ; 
that  we  are  to  console  ourselves  for  every  grief,  and  re- 
pay ourselves  for  every  resignation,  by  the  idea  that 
thereby  we  somehow  or  other  make  God  our  debtor, 
ready  to  requite  us  in  another  existence  for  all  we  have 
lost  or  willfully  thrown  away  in  this ;  still  it  is  hopeless 
either  to  teach  or  learn  the  difficult  lesson,  which  in 
plain  words  I  may  call  "making  the  best  of  things," 
without  a  firm  trust,  first  in  His  love  who  bids  us  do  it ; 
secondly  in  our  own  duty  of  obedience  to  His  para- 
mount will,  in  great  things  and  small,  simply  because  it 
is  His  will,  whether  we  understand  it  or  not. 

Therefore  I  am  no  heretic,  though  I  may  say  things 
that  make  orthodoxy  shudder;  perhaps  because  it  has  a 
secret  fear  that  they  may  be  true  after  all. 

These  "fragments"  of  lives  —  how  they  strew  our 
daily  path  on  every  side !  Not  a  house  do  we  enter,  not 
a  company  do  we  mix  with,  but  we  more  than  guess — 
we  know — that  these  our  friends,  men  and  women,  who 
go  about  the  world,  doing  their  work  and  taking  their 
pleasure  therein,  all  carry  about  with  them  a  secret  bur- 
den— of  bitter  disappointments,  vanished  hopes,  unful- 
filled ambitions,  lost  loves.  Probably  every  one  of  them, 
when  his  or  her  smiling  face  vanishes  from  the  circle, 
will  change  it  into  another,  serious,  anxious,  sad — happy, 
if  it  be  only  sad,  with  no  mingling  of  either  bitterness 


GATHER  UP  THE  FRAGMENTS.  183 

or  badness.  That  complete  felicity,  winch  the  young 
believe  in,  and  expect  almost  as  a  matter  of  certainty  to 
come,  never  does  come.  Soon  or  late,  we  have  to  make 
up  our  minds  to  do  without  it ;  to  take  up  the  fragments 
of  our  blessings,  thankful  that  we  have  what  we  have, 
and  are  what  we  are;  above  all  that  we  have  our  own 
burden  to  bear,  and  not  our  neighbor's.  But,  whatever 
it  is,  we  must  bear  it  alone ;  and  this  gathering-up  of 
fragments,  which  I  am  so  earnestly  advising,  is  also  a 
thing  which  must  be  done  alone. 

The  lesson  is  sometimes  learned  very  early.  It  is 
shrewdly  said,  "At  three  we  love  our  mothers,  at  six  our 
fathers,  at  twelve  our  holidays,  at  twenty  our  sweet- 
hearts, at  thirty  our  wives,  at  forty  our  children,  at  fif- 
ty ourselves."  Still,  in  one  form  or  other,  love  is  the 
groundwork  of  our  existence. 

So  at  least  thinks  the  passionate  boy  or  sentimental 
girl  who  has  fallen  under  its  influence.  For  I  suppose 
we  must  all  concede  the  every-day  fact  that  most  people 
fall  in  love  some  time  or  other,  and  that  a  good  many 
do  it  even  in  their  teens.  You  may  call  it  "  calf-love," 
and  so  it  often  is;  and  comes  to  the  salutary  end  of 
such  a  passion : 

"Which  does  at  once,  like  paper  set  on  fire, 
Bum — and  expire." 

But  it  gives  a  certain  amount  of  pain  and  discomfort 


184  GATHER  UP  THE  FRAGMENTS. 

during  the  conflagration,  and  often  leaves  an  ugly  little 
Leap  of  ashes  behind. 

Also,  it  is  well  to  be  cautious ;  as  the  foolishest  of 
fancies  may  develop  into  a  real  'love — the  blessing  or 
curse  of  a  lifetime. 

"  Fond  of  her  ?"  I  heard  an  old  man  once  answer,  as 
he  stood  watching  his  wife  move  slowly  down  their 
beautiful  but  rather  lonely  garden  ;  they  had  buried 
eight  of  their  nine  children,  and  the  ninth  was  going  to 
be  married  that  spring.  "Fond  of  her  ?"  with  a  gentle 
smile,  "  Why,  I've  been  fond  of  her  these  fifty  years  !" 

But  such  cases  are  very  exceptional.  It  is  so  seldom 
that  one  love — a  happy  love — runs  like  a  golden  thread 
through  the  life  of  either  man  or  woman,  that  we  ought 
to  be  patient  even  with  the  most  frantic  boy  or  forlorn 
girl  who  has  "  fallen  in  love,"  and  is  enduring  its  first 
sharp  pleasure — or  pain — for  both  are  much  alike. 

When  they  come  and  tell  you  that  their  hearts  are 
broken,  it  is  best  not  to  laugh  at  them,  but  to  help  them 
to  "  gather  up  the  fragments  "  as  soon  as  possible.  At 
first,  of  course,  they  will  not  agree  that  it  is  possible. 
"  This  or  nothing !"  is  the  despairing  cry  ;  and  though 
we  may  hint  that  the  world  is  wide,  and  there  may  be 
in  it  other  people,  at  least  as  good  as  the  one  particular 
idol,  still  we  can  not  expect  them  to  believe  it.  Disap- 
pointed lovers  would  think  it  treason  against  love  to 
suppose  that  life  is  to  be  henceforward  any  thing  than 


GATHER  UP  THE  FRAGMENTS.  185 

a  total  blank.  It  is  so,  sometimes  ;  Heaven  knows  !  I 
confess  to  being  one  of  those  few  who,  in  this  age,  dare 
still  believe  in  love,  and  in  its  awful  influence,  for  good 
or  for  evil,  at  the  very  outset  of  life.  But  it  is  not  the 
whole  of  life ;  nor  ought  to  be. 

The  prevention  of  a  so-called  "  imprudent "  marriage 
— namely,  an  impecunious  one — and  the  forcing  on  of 
another,  which  had  nothing  in  the  world  to  recommend 
it  except  money,  has  often  been  the  ultimate  ruin  of  a 
young  man,  who  would  have  been  a  good  man  had  he 
been  a  happy  man — had  he  married  the  girl  he  loved. 
And  in  instances  too  numerous  to  count,  have  girls — 
through  the  common  but  contemptible  weakness  of  not 
knowing  their  own  minds,  or  the  worse  than  weakness 
of  being  governed  by  the  minds  of  others  in  so  exclu- 
sively a  personal  matter  as  marriage — driven  honest 
fellows  into  vice.  Or  else  into  some  reckless,  hasty 
union,  whereby  both  the  man  himself  and  the  poor 
wife,  whom  he  never  loved  but  only  married,  were  made 
miserable  for  life. 

Generally  speaking,  men  get  over  their  love-sorrows 
much  easier  than  women.  Naturally  ;  because  life  has 
for  them  many  other  things  besides  love ;  for  women, 
almost  nothing.  But  still  one  does  find  occasionally  a 
man,  prosperous  and  happy,  kind  to  his  wife,  and  devot- 
ed to  his  children,  in  whom  the  indelible  trace  of  some 
early  disappointment  is  that  one  name  is  never  men- 


186  GATHER  UP  THE  FRAGMENTS. 

tioned,  one  set  of  associations  entirely  put  aside.  He  is 
a  good  fellow — a  cheerful  fellow  too ;  he  has  taken  up 
the  fragments  of  his  life,  and  made  the  very  best  of 
them.  Yet  sometimes  you  feel  that  the  life  would  have 
been  more  complete,  the  character  more  nobly  devel- 
oped,-if  the  man  had  had  his  heart's  desire,  and  mar- 
ried his  first  love. 

Which  nobody  does,  they  say ;  certainly,  almost  no- 
body ;  yet  the  world  wags  on ;  and  every  body  seems  sat- 
isfied— at  least  in  public.  Nay,  possibly,  in  private  too; 
for  time  has  such  infinite  power  of  healing  or  hiding. 
There  is  nothing  harder  than  a  lava  stream  grown  cold. 

Those  of  us  who  have  reached  middle  age  without 
dropping — who  would  ever  drop? — the  ties  of  our 
youth,  move  about  encircled  by  dozens  of  such  secret 
histories,  forgotten  by  the  outside  world — half  forgot- 
ten, perhaps,  by  the  very  actors  therein — with  whom  we, 
the  spectators,  had  once  such  deep  sympathy.  Now,  we 
sometimes  turn  and  look  at  a  face  which  we  remember 
as  a  young  face,  alive  with  all  the  passion  of  youth — 
and  we  marvel  to  see  how  commonplace  it  has  grown  ; 
reddening  cosily  over  a  good  dinner,  or  sharp  and  eager 
over  business  greed ;  worn  and  wrinkled  with  nursery 
cares,  or  sweetly  smiling  in  a  grand  drawing-room,  ready 
to  play  its 

"Petty  part, 
With  a  little  hoard  of  maxims  preaching  down  a  daughter's  heart." 


GATHER   UP   THE   FRAGMENTS.  187" 

A  sort  of  gathering-iip  of  fragments  which  those  who 
are  weak  enough  or  strong  enough  still  to  believe  in 
love  will  think  far  worse  than  any  scattering. 

The  young  will  not  believe  us  when  we  tell  them  that 
their  broken  hearts  may  be  mended — ought  to  be  ;  since 
life  is  too  precious  a  thing  to  be  wasted  over  any  one 
woman,  or  man  either.  It  is  given  us  to  be  made  the 
most  of ;  and  this,  whether  we  ourselves  are  happy  or 
miserable.  The  misery  will  not  last  —  the  happiness 
will ;  if  only  in  remembrance.  No  pure  joy,  however 
fleeting,  contains  any  real  bitterness,  even  when  it  is 
gone  by. 

But  time  only  will  teach  this.  At  first  there  is  noth- 
ing so  overwhelming  as  the  despair  of  youth,  wThich  sees 
neither  before  it  nor  behind ;  refuses  to  be  laughed  out 
of  or  preached  out  of  its  cherished  woe,  which  it  deems 
a  matter  of  conscience  to  believe  eternal. 

It  will  not  be  eternal ;  but  best  not  to  say  so  to  the 
sufferer.  Best  to  attempt  neither  argument  nor  conso- 
lation, only  substitution.  Hard  work,  close  study,  a  sud- 
den plunge  into  the  serious  business  of  life,  that  the  vic- 
tim may  find  the  world  contains  other  things  besides 
love,  is  the  wisest  course  to  be  suggested  by  those  long- 
suffering,  much-abused  beings — parents  and  guardians. 
Love  is  the  best  thing — few  deny  that ;  but  life  contains 
many  supplementary  blessings  too :  honorable  ambition, 
leading  to  a  success  well-earned  and  well-used ;  to  say 


188  GATHER  UP  THE  FRAGMENTS. 

nothing  of  that  calm  strength  which  comes  into  a  young 
man's  heart  when  he  has  fought  with  and  conquered 
fate  by  first  conquering  himself,  the  most  fatal  fate  of 
all. 

Commonplace  preaching  this !  Every  body  has  heard 
it.  Strange  how  seldom  any  body  thinks  of  acting  upon 
it.  In  the  temporary  madness  of  disappointment  a  poor 
fellow  will  go  and  wreck  his  whole  future ;  and  when 
afterward  he  would  fain  build  up  a  new  life  —  alas ! 
there  is  no  material  left  to  build  with. 

Therefore  it  is  the  duty  of  those  older  and  wiser,  who, 
perhaps,  themselves  have  waded  through  the  black  river 
and  landed  safe  on  the  opposite  shore,  to  show  him  that 
it  is  not  as  deep  as  it  seems,  and  that  it  has  an  opposite 
shore.  He  may  swim  through,  with  the  aid  of  a  stout 
heart  and  an  honest  self-respect :  self-respect,  not  selfish- 
ness— for  the  most  selfish  creature  alive  is  a  young  man 
in  love,  except  toward  the  young  woman  he  happens  to 
be  in  love  with.  Not  seldom,  the  very  best  lesson  of 
life — bitter  but  wholesome — is  taught  to  a  young  man 
by  a  love  disappointment. 

Not  so  with  women ;  they  being  in  this  matter  pas- 
sive, not  active  agents.  So  few  girls  are  "in  love"  now- 
adays ;  so  many  set  upon  merely  getting  married,  that  I 
confess  to  a  secret  respect  for  any  heart  which  has  in  it 
the  capacity  of  being  "  broken."  Not  that  it  does  break, 
unless  the  victim  is  too  feeble  physically  to  fight  against 


GATHER  UP  THE  FRAGMENTS.  180 

her  mental  suffering ;  but  the  anguish  is  sore  at  the 
time.  There  is  no  cure  for  it,  except  one,  suggested  by 
a  little  girl  I  know,  who  with  the  innocent  passion  of  six 
and  a  half  adored  a  certain  "  beautiful  Charlie"  of  nine- 
teen. Some  one  suggested  that  Charlie  would  marry 
and  cease  to  care  for  her.  "  Then  I  should  be  so  unhap- 
py," sighed  the  sad  little  voice.  "  What,  if  he  married  a 
wife  he  was  very  fond  of,  and  who  made  him  quite  hap- 
py— would  you  be  unhappy  then?"  —  "No,"  was  the 
answer,  given  after  a  slight  pause,  which  showed  this 
conclusion  was  not  come  to  without  thought — "No;  I 
would  love  his  wife,  that's  all." 

The  poor  little  maid  had  jumped  by  instinct — wom- 
anly instinct — to  the  true  secret  of  faithful  love — the 
love  which  desires,  above  all,  the  good  of  the  beloved, 
and  therefore  learns  to  be  brave  enough  to  look  at 
happiness  through  another's  eyes. 

This  is  the  only  way  by  which  any  girl  can  take  up 
the  fragments  of  a  lost  or  unrequited  affection :  by 
teaching  herself,  not  to  forget  it — that  is  impossible — 
but  to  rise  above  it ;  until  the  sting  is  taken  out  of  her 
sorrow,  and  it  becomes  gradually  transformed  from  a 
slow  poison  into  a  bitter  but  wholesome  food. 

Besides,  though  the  suggestion  may  seem  far  below 
the  attention  of  poetical  people,  there  are  such  things  as 
fathers  and  mothers,  brothers  arid  sisters,  and  other  not 
undeserving  relations,  to  whom  a  tithe  of  the  affection 


190  GATHER  UP  THE  FRAGMENTS. 

wasted  upon  some  (possibly)  only  half-deserving  young 
man  would  be  a  priceless  boon.  And  so  long  as  the 
world  endures  there  will  always  be  abundance  of  help- 
less, sick,  and  sorrowful  people  calling  on  the  sorrow- 
stricken  one  for  aid,  and  ready  to  pay  her  back  for  all 
she  condescends  to  give  with  that  grateful  affection 
which  heals  a  wounded  heart  better  than  any  thing — 
except  work. 

Work,  work,  work !  That  is  the  grand  panacea  for 
sorrow ;  and,  mercifully,  there  is  no  end  of  work  to  be 
done  in  this  world,  if  any  body  will  do  it.  Few  house- 
holds are  so  perfect  in  their  happy  self-containedness 
that  they  are  not  glad  oftentimes  of  the  help  of  some 
lonely  woman,  to  whom  they  also  supply  the  sacred 
consolation  of  being  able  to  help  somebody,  and  thus 
perhaps  save  her  from  throwing  herself  blindly  into 
some  foolish  career  for  which  she  has  no  real  vocation, 
except  that  forced  upon  her  by  the  sickly  fancy  of  sor- 
row. For  neither  art  nor  science  nor  religion  will  really 
repay  its  votaries,  if  they  take  to  it,  like  opium  eaters, 
merely  to  deaden  despair. 

And  here  I  must  own  to  a  certain  sympathy  with 
those  sisterhoods — yes,  even  Roman  Catholic  sisterhoods 
— who  hold  out  pitying  arms  to  sufferers  like  these: 
disappointed  maidens,  unhappy  wives,  childless  widows ; 
struck  by  some  one  of  the  many  forms  of  incurable 
grief  which  are  so  common  among  women,  whose  des- 


GATHER  UP  THE  FRAGMENTS.  191 

tiny  generally  seems  less  to  conquer  than  to  endure. 
Of  course,  the  natural  duties,  those  which  lie  close  at 
hand,  are  safest  and  best ;  but  such  do  not  come  to  all, 
and  any  duties  are  better  than  none ;  any  work,  even 
the  painful  and  often  revolting  toil  of  a  sister  of  char- 
ity, is  safer  than  idleness. 

For,  say  what'  you  will,  and  pity  them  as  you  may, 
these  broken  hearts  are  exceedingly  troublesome  to  the 
rest  of  the  world.  We  do  not  like  to  see  our  relatives 
and  friends  going  about  with  melancholy  faces,  per- 
petually weeping  over  the  unburied  corpse  of  some 
hopeless  grief  or  unpardonable  wrong.  We  had  much 
rather  they  buried  it  quietly,  and  allowed  us  after  a  due 
season  of  sympathy  to  go  on  our  way.  Most  of  us  pre- 
fer to  be  comfortable  if  we  can.  I  have  always  found 
those  the  best-liked  people  who  have  strength  to  bear 
their  sorrows  themselves,  without  troubling  their  neigh- 
bors. And  the  sight  of  all  others  most  touching,  most 
ennobling,  is  that  of  a  man  or  woman  whom  we  know 
to  have  suffered,  perhaps  to  be  suffering  still,  yet  who 
still  carries  a  cheerful  face,  is  a  burden  to  no  friend, 
nor  casts  a  shadow  over  any  household — perhaps  quite 
the  contrary.  Those  whose  own  light  is  quenched  are 
often  the  light-bringers. 

To  accept  the  inevitable  ;  neither  to  struggle  against 
it  nor  murmur  at  it,  simply  to  bear  it — this  is  the  great 
lesson  of  life — above  all  to  a  woman.  It  may  come 


192  GATHER  UP  THE  FRAGMENTS. 

late  or  early,  and  the  learning  of  it  is  sure  to  be  hard ; 
but  she  will  never  be  a  really  happy  woman  until  she 
has  learned  it.  I  have  always  thought  two  of  the  most 
pathetic  pictures  of  women's  lives  ever  given  are  Ten- 
nyson's "  Dora  " — 

"  As  time 

Went  onward,  Mary  took  another  mate ; 
But  Dora  lived  unmarried  to  her  death" — 

and  Jeanie,  in  "  Auld  Robin  Gray,"  who  says,  with  the 
grave  simplicity  of  a  God-fearing  Scotswoman — 

' '  I  daurna  think  o'  Jamie,  for  that  wad  be  a  sin  ; 
So  I  will  do  my  best  a  gude  wife  to  be, 
For  Auld  Eobin  Gray  is  vera  kind  to  me." 

Besides  lost  loves,  common  to  both  men  and  women, 
there  are  griefs  which  belong  perhaps  to  men  only — 
lost  ambitions.  It  is  very  sore  for  a  man  just  touching, 
or  having  just  passed,  middle  age,  slowly  to  find  out 
that  he  has  failed  in  the  promise  of  his  youth ;  failed 
in  every  thing — aspirations,  hopes,  actions ;  a  man  of 
whom  strangers  charitably  say,  "  Poor  fellow,  there's 
a  screw  loose  somewhere ;  he'll  never  get  on  in  the 
world."  And  even  his  nearest  friends  begin  mourn- 
fully to  believe  this ;  they  cease  to  hope,  and  content 
themselves  in  finding  palliatives  for  a  sort  of  patient 
despair.  That  "loose  screw" — Heaven  knows  what  it 
is,  or  whether  he  himself  is  aware  of  it  OK  not — always 
seems  to  prevent  his  succeeding  in  any  thing ;  or  else, 


GATHER  UP  THE  FRAGMENTS.  193 

without  any  fault  of  his  own,  circumstances  have  made 
him  the  wrong  man  in  the  wrong  place,  and  it  is  too 
late  now  to  get  out  of  it.  Pride  and  shame  alike  keep 
him  silent ;  yet  he  knows — and  his  friends  know,  and 
he  knows  they  know  it — that  his  career  has  been,  and 
always  will  be,  a  dead  failure ;  that  the  only  thing  left 
for  him  is  to  gather  up  the  fragments  of  his  vanished 
dreams,  his  lost  ambitions,  his  wasted  labors,  and  go  on 
patiently  to  the  end.  He  does  so,  working  away  at  a 
business  which  he  hates,  or  pursuing  an  art  which  ne  is 
conscious  he  has  no  talent  for,  or  bound  hand  and  foot 
in  a  mesh  of  circumstances  against  which  he  has  not 
energy  enough  to  struggle.  Whatever  form  of  destiny 
may  have  swamped  him,  he  is  swamped,  and  for  life. 

Yet  even  in  a  case  like  this,  and  there  are  few  sad- 
der, lies  a  certain  consolation.  People  prate  about 
heroes ;  but  one  sometimes  sees  a  simple,  commonplace 
man,  with  nothing  either  grand  or  clever  about  him, 
who,  did  we  only  know  it,  is  more  worthy  the  name  of 
hero  than  many  a  conqueror  of  a  city.  Aye,  though  all 
the  dream -palaces  of  his  youth  may  have  crumbled 
down ;  or,  like  the  Arabs,  he  may  have  had  to  build 
and  live  in  a  poor  little  hut  under  the  ruins  of  temples 
that  might  have  been.  But  One  beyond  us  all  knows 
the  story  of  this  pathetic  "  might-have-been,"  and  has 
pity  upon  it — the  pity  that,  unlike  man's,  wounds  not, 
only  strengthens  and  heals. 

I 


194  GATHER  UP  THE  FRAGMENTS. 

For,  after  all,  patience  is  very  strong.  Making  a  mis- 
take in  the  outset  of  life  is  like  beginning  to  wind  a 
skein  of  silk  at  the  wrong  end.  It  gives  us  infinite 
trouble,  and  perhaps  is  in  a  tangle  half  through,  but  it 
often  gets  smooth  and  straight  before  the  close.  Thus 
many  a  man  has  so  conquered  himself,  for  duty's  sake, 
that  the  work  he  originally  hated,  and  therefore  did  ill, 
he  gets  in  time  to  do  well,  and  consequently  to  like.  In 
the  catalogue  of  success  and  failure,  could  such  be  ever 
truthfully  written,  it  would  be  curious  to  note  those  who 
had  succeeded  in  what  they  had  no  mind  to,  and  failed 
in  that  which  they  considered  their  especial  vocation. 
A  man's  vocation  is  that  to  which  he  is  "  called ;"  only 
sometimes  he  mistakes  the  voice  calling.  But  the  voice 
of  duty  there  is  no  mistaking,  nor  its  response — in  the 
strong  heart,  the  patient  mind,  the  contented  spirit ;  es- 
pecially the  latter,  which,  while  striving  to  the  utmost 
against  what  is  not  inevitable,  when  once  it  is  proved  to 
be  inevitable,  accepts  it  as  such,  and  struggles  no  more. 
Still  to  do  this  requires  not  only  human  courage,  but 
superhuman  faith;  the  acknowledgment  of  a  Will  di- 
viner than  ours,  to  which  we  must  submit,  and  in  the 
mere  act  of  submission  find  consolation  and  repara- 
tion. 

This  is  above  all  necessary  in  the  most  irreparable 
shattering  of  any  lot — an  unhappy  marriage.  A  sub- 
ject so  difficult,  so  delicate,  that  I  would  shrink  from 


GATHER  UP  THE  FRAGMENTS.  195 

touching  on  it,  were  it  not  so  terribly  common,  so  mourn- 
fully true. 

Yes ;  optimists  may  deny,  and  pessimists  exult  in  the 
fact — but  I  am  afraid  it  is  a  fact — that  few  marriages 
are  entirely  happy.  As  few,  perhaps,  as  those  single 
lives  which  are  proverbially  supposed  to  be  so  miser- 
able. This  because  the  average  of  people  are,  volun- 
tarily or  involuntarily,  only  too  prone  to  be  miserable ; 
and  those  that  are  unhappy  single  will  not  be  cured  by 
marriage,  but  will  rather  have  the  power  of  making 
two  people  wretched  instead  of  one.  Add  to  this  the 
exceeding  rashness  with  which  people  plunge  into  a 
"  state  "  which,  as  Juliet  says — 

"Well  thou  knowest  is  full  of  doubt  and  fear." 

The  wonder  is  not  that  some  married  people  are  less 
happy  than  they  hoped  to  be,  but  that  any  married  peo- 
ple, out  of  the  honeymoon,  or  even  in  it,  are  ever  happy 
at  all. 

Also  it  is  curious  to  observe  how  many  persons  seem 
actually  to  enjoy  misery ;  to  throw  away  their  good 
things,  and  fasten  deliberately  on  their  evil  things ;  so 
that  each  day — instead  of  being  a  rejoicing  over  bless- 
ings that,  possibly,  are  like  daily  bread,  only  for  the  day 
—is  wasted  in  dreary  complainings;  regrets  for  what 
is  not,  rather  than  thanksgivings  for  what  is.  It  all 
springs  from  the  strange  idea  before  adverted  to  tlmt 


196  GATHER  UP  THE  FRAGMENTS. 

Heaven  is  somehow  our  debtor  for  endless  felicity,  which 
if  we  do  not  get,  or  getting,  waste  and  lose,  we  cry  like 
Jonah  over  his  withered  gourd,  "  I  do  well  to  be  angry." 

As  men  do — no,  not  men ;  they  are  mostly  silent,  ei- 
ther from  honor  or  pride  —  but  women,  when,  having 
made  a  rash  or  loveless  marriage,  they  wake  up  to  find 
themselves  utterly  miserable,  and  causing  misery  —  all 
the  sharper  because  it  is  irretrievable. 

And  yet  that  very  irretrievableness  is  its  best  hope. 
Heretical  as  the  doctrine  may  seem,  I  believe  if  one 
half  of  the  ordinary  marriages  one  sees  could  have  been 
broken  without  public  scandal,  they  would  have  been 
broken,  sometimes  even  within  the  first  twelve  months. 
But  the  absolute  inevitableness  of  the  bond,  at  least  in 
our  English  eyes,  makes  it  fix  itself  like  an  iron  band 
around  a  tree  trunk  —  the  very  bark  which  it  pierces 
grows  over  it  in  time.  With  the  woman,  at  least ;  the 
man  is  rather  different.  .But  with  both,  if  truly  honor- 
able men  and  women,  having  made  a  mistake  in  mar- 
riage, which  was  presumably  a  voluntary  act,  they  must 
abide  by  it  till  death.  Death,  that  remorseless  breaker 
of  bonds — alike  awful  to  contemplate  by  love  or  by  hate. 
Since  I  suppose  the  most  brutally  treated  wife,  the  most 
heavily  bound  and  sorely  tried  husband,  would  never 
contemplate  that  release  without  sensations  little  short 
of  those  of  a  murderer. 

You  perceive  I  am  not  one  of  those  who  uphold  di- 


GATHER  UP  THE  FRAGMENTS.  197 

vorce.  I  believe  that  from  no  cause,  except  that  which 
the  New  Testament  gives  as  a  reason  for  a  man's  put- 
ting away  his  wife  or  a  woman  her  husband,  should  the 
tie  be  allowed  to  be  broken ;  at  least,  not  so  as  to  ad- 
mit of  either  party  marrying  another.  The  Catholic 
Church  is  not  far  wrong  in  holding  marriage  to  be  a 
sacrament,  and  its  dissolution  impossible;  though  there 
are  cases  in  which  we  must  admit  the  right — nay,  the 
necessity — of  total  and  lifelong  separation.  But  only  in 
extreme  cases,  and  when  to  go  on  enduring  hopeless 
misery  would  sacrifice  others  besides  the  parties  them- 
selves. These  two,  undoubtedly,  alas!  fall  under  the 
lash  of  that  grim  truth,  "If  you  make  your  own  bed, 
you  must  lie  upon  it." 

And  is  it  not  sad — if  it  were  not  often  so  heroic — the 
way  people  do  lie  on  it  ?  with  the  iron  spikes  eating  into 
their  very  flesh ;  making  no  complaint,  keeping  a  fair 
outside  to  the  world,  and  telling  heaps  of  innocent  lies, 
which  deceive  nobody,  except  perhaps  those  who  tell 
them. 

A  perfect  marriage  is  as  rare  as  a  perfect  love. 
Could  it  be  otherwise,  when  both  men  and  women  are 
so  imperfect  ?  Could  aught  else  be  expected  ?  .Yet  all 
do  expect  it.  Does  not  every  young  couple  married  be- 
lieve that  they  are  stepping  from  the  church  door  into  en- 
tire felicity,  to  end  only  with  their  lives  ?  Yet,  look  at 
them  ten,  fifteen,  twenty  years  after,  and  how  have  those 


198  GATHER  UP  THE  FRAGMENTS. 

lives  turned  out?  Should  some  old  friend  pay  them  a 
visit,  will  he  or  she  return  envying  their  felicity,  as  per- 
haps on  that  wedding  morning — or  hugging  themselves 
in  their  own  independent  old-bachelorship  or  peaceful 
old-maidism,  thinking  happiness  is,  after  all,  a  much 
more  equally  spread  thing  than  they  once  supposed  ? 

So  it  is.  Though,  according  to  the  old  joke,  married 
people  are  often  like  little  boys  bathing,  who  cry  with 
chattering  teeth  to  the  boys  on  the  shore,  "  Do  come  in, 
it's  so  warm" — it  is  not  always  warm.  There  is  no  sad- 
der picture — if  it  were  not  such  an  every-day  picture—' 
than  two  young  people,  married  perhaps  for  love,  at  any 
rate  for  liking,  but  married  in  haste,  to  repent  at  leisure ; 
which  they  piteously  do.  Knowing  little  or  nothing  of 
each  other's  temper,  taste,  character,  they  slowly  wake 
up  to  find  these  so  diverse,  that  it  was  morally  impossi- 
ble they  could  have  been  happy  for  very  long ;  and  here 
they  are,  tied  together  in  the  most  intimate  union  that 
life  stilowBJ forever.  A  thought  absolutely  maddening — 
at  first,  and  with  people  of  sensitive  or  impulsive  natures. 
I  fear,  if  we  could  look  into  our  neighbors'  hearts,  the 
catalogue  of  suicides  never  committed,  of  elopements 
unaccomplished,  even  of  unperpetrated  murders,  would 
be,  to  those  who  see  no  difference  between  the  thought 
and  the  act,  something  startling — nay,  appalling. 

But  these  tragedies  do  not  happen — at  least,  not  often. 
They  drop  into  "  genteel  comedy."  "  Can  two  walk  to- 


GATHER  UP  THE  FRAGMENTS.  199 

gether,  unless  they  be  agreed  ?"  Yery  many  couples  are 
not  "agreed" — far  from  it;  yet  seeing  they  must  walk 
together  somehow,  they  make  up  their  minds  to  do  it, 
and  they  do  do  it.  Aye,  in  spite  of  good-natured  friends, 
who  can  not  help  observing  how  unhappy  they  are,  and 
perhaps  how  happy  they  might  both  have  been  if  each 
had  been  married  to  a  different  sort  of  person.  But  this 
is  not  the  case — they  are  married  to  the  person  whom 
they  themselves  chose,  or  fate  chose  for  them.  The 
thing  is  done,  and  there  is  no  undoing  it. 

None;  for  the  unavoidable  bigamies  and  innocent 
adulteries  so  popular  nowadays  are  to  all  right-minded, 
I  will  not  even  say  Christian  people,  actual  sin :  simple, 
absolute,  inexcusable  sin.  No  nonsense  about  "  elective 
affinities  "  and  "  Platonic  friendships "  can  excuse  the 
smallest  trifling  with  the  sanctity  of  the  marriage  bond. 
The  empty  heart  must  remain  empty  forever. 

Yet  it  is  pitiful — most  pitiful !  especially  if  the  couple 
are  not  bad,  only  ill-assorted,  and  young  still;  young 
enough  to  make  a  possible  future  of  twenty  or  thirty 
years  look  so  black  in  the  distance !  haunted  by  the  pale 
phantom  of  dead  love,  the  wretched  will-o'-the-wisp  of 
a  lost  happiness.  God  help  them,  poor  souls  !  No  won- 
der such  a  lot  should  drive  men  wicked  and  women 
mad ;  as  it  does,  of tener  perhaps  than  the  world  knows. 

For  such  a  grief  is  of  necessity  a  secret  one.  The 
husband  pays  all  outward  respect  to  his  silly,  bad-tern- 


200  .         GATHER  UP  THE  FRAGMENTS. 

pered  wife — the  wife  hides  all  her  husband's  faults  and 
exalts  his  virtues.  Both  do  their  best  to  take  up  the 
fragments  that  remain,  pretending  all  is  exactly  as  they 
desire;  throwing  dust  in  their  neighbors'  eyes;  and, 
partly  from  pride,  partly  from  shame,  sometimes  from 
mere  worldly  prudence,  keeping  up  appearances  before 
the  world.  Whatever  the  motive,  it  answers  the  purpose 
— a  righteous  purpose  too.  Society  is  not  scandalized, 
the  home  is  not  broken  up,  friends  and  kindred  are  not 
troubled.  They  only  guess — they  really  know  nothing. 
And  if  guessing  something,  they  look  on  in  compassion- 
ate sympathy — they  attempt  no  help  or  advice,  for  none 
is  asked :  it  would  be  rather  resented  than  not.  The 
fragments  must  be  gathered  up  alone,  by  each  forlorn 
sufferer,  out  of  the  depths  of  the  suffering  heart.  And 
how? 

It  is  a  curious  opposite  picture  to  our  vaunted  English 
"  love  "  marriages  that  the  French  "  arranged  "  mar- 
riages often  turn  out  so  well.  The  reason  is  apparent. 
Two  people  can  not  live  long  together  in  indifference. 
The  tie  between  a  married  pair,  howsoever  married, 
must  be  one  of  either  love  or  hate ;  and,  being  an  indis- 
soluble tie — also,  few  people  being  wholly  wicked  or  en- 
tirely detestable — the  chances  are  that  in  time  it  be- 
comes the  former.  One  by  one  they  discover  each  oth- 
er's virtues,  and  learn  to  be  tender  over  each  other's 
faults.  Having,  unlike  lovers,  only  the  future  to  deal 


GATHER  UP  THE  FRAGMENTS.  201 

with,  no  dead  past  to  bury  out  of  sight,  they  are  kinder 
to  one  another  even  than  those  who  were  once  much 
more  than  kind.  For  there  is  no  injustice  deeper  than 
the  conscience-stricken  injustice  of  a  waning  love — no 
cruelty  sharper  than  that  of  apostates  to  a  forsaken  idol. 
And  it  might  be  a  nice  question  for  some  modern  Court 
of  Love  to  decide — which  is  the  bitterest  lot,  to  cling 
through  life  to  a  love  unfulfilled,  or  to  have  attained 
one's  heart's  desire,  and  found  the  object  not  worth 
possessing  ? 

Nevertheless,  the  saving  fact  which  I  have  acknowl- 
edged and  accounted  for  concerning  these  "  mariages  de 
convenance,"  which  we  in  England  condemn  so  much, 
gives  a  hope  for  those  almost  more  hopeless  "  love " 
marriages,  which,  beginning  so  brightly,  sink  slowly  into 
permanent  gloom,  and  end — who  knows  how? — unless 
there  come  to  the  rescue  that  "stern  daughter  of  the 
voice  of  God  " — Duty — which  is  still "  loved  of  love  "— 
and  has  oftentimes  the  power  to  revive  love,  even  when 
to  all  outward  eyes  it  is  dead  forever. 

Duty — pure  duty — without  any  thought  of  personal 
reward  or  personal  happiness — is  the  strongest,  sweetest, 
most  sacred  force  that  domestic  life  possesses.  And  it 
brings  with  it  its  own  consolations ;  not  perhaps  the  con- 
solation it  craves — it  is  strange  how  seldom  Heaven  gives 
us  poor  mortals  exactly  what  we  desire — but  something 
else,  in  substitution.  How  many  a  sorrowful  woman 

12 


202  GATHER  UP  THE  FRAGMENTS. 

heals  her  bruised  heart  beside  her  baby's  cradle !  How 
many  a  disappointed,  lonely  man — to  whom  his  wife  is 
no  companion  and  no  helpmeet — takes  comfort  in  his 
baby  daughter,  and  looks  forward  hopefully  to  the  time 
when  she  will  be  a  grown  wTornan ;  his  friend  and  solace, 
the  sharer  of  his  tastes  and  humorer  of  his  innocent  hob- 
bies— all,  in  short,  that  her  mother  might  have  been,  but 
is  not!  Yet  he  will  not  love  her  mother  the  less, but 
rather  the  more,  for  the  child's  sake. 

He  is  right,  and  the  forlorn  woman  is  right,  who,  hav- 
ing missed  the  highest  bliss,  has  strength  to  take  up  the 
fragments  of  a  secondary  one;  so  that,  in  the  divine  and 
comforting  words  before  referred  to,  "  nothing  be  lost." 
If  she  has  children,  she  loves  them,  often  passionately; 
not,  alas!  for  the  father's  sake;  but  they  teach  her  to 
be  patient  with  the  father  for  the  sake  of  his  children. 
While  the  man  who,  however  inferior  his  wife  may  be 
— and,  the  glamour  of  passion  ended,  he  knows  her  to 
be,  and  knows  that  all  the  world  knows  it  too — never  al- 
lows her  to  suffer  for  his  own  rash  mistake,  but  pays  her 
all  tender  respect  as  the  mistress  of  his  house  and  the 
mother  of  his  offspring — that  man,  who,  whatever  his  in- 
ward sufferings,  betrays  nothing,  and  makes  no  one  mis- 
erable but  himself,  will  have  at  least  the  peace  of  a  quiet 
conscience.  As  he  goes  about  the  world,  doing  his  duty 
therein,  with  a  calm  brow  and  a  reticent  tongue — what- 
ever people  suspect,  be  sure  they  will  say  nothing.  He 


GATHER  UP  THE  FRAGMENTS.  203 

has  accepted  his  lot,  taken  up  his  burden ;  and  will 
carry  it  through  life,  steadily,  nobly,  uncomplainingly. 
Therefore  man  will  honor  him,  and  God  will  sustain 
him — to  the  end. 

Also  burdens  lighten — or  else  the  back  gets  used  to 
them  by  degrees.  How  many  a  house  do  we  enter,  and 
witnessing  its  secret  cares,  think — not  without  thank- 
fulness— that  we  can  bear  our  own  troubles,  but  we 
could  not  bear  theirs.  Yet  we  see  they  are  borne,  even 
with  apparent  unconsciousness,  by  those  accustomed  to 
them.  The  endless  snarling  and  pitiless  fault-find- 
ing of  a  bad-tempered  man  passes  harmlessly  over  his 
placid,  brave -hearted  wife ;  the  intolerable  silliness  or 
churlishness  or  selfishness  of  one  member  of  a  family 
is  perhaps  hardly  noticed  by  the  rest.  We  have  all  so 
much  to  put  up  with  from  other  people — and  other 
people  the  same,  or  worse,  from  us — that  even  love  it- 
self will  not  stand  upright.  That  is  (if  I  can  put  it 
clearly  without  falling  into  cant  phraseology)  unless  in 
great  things  and  small  we  are  guided  by  a  motive  be- 
low and  above  ourselves  and  our  personal  interests  ;  un- 
less, in  short,  every  love  we  have  is  made  subservient  to 
the  love  of  God. 

If  this  be  so,  surely  it  is  possible,  even  after  ship- 
wrecks like  these,  not  to  let  ourselves  drift  away  into  a 
sea  of  despair.  The  vessel  has  gone  down,  but  there 
may  be  a  little  boat  somewhere ;  our  sail  may  be  torn 


204  GATHER  UP  THE  FRAGMENTS. 

to  ribbons,  but  we  have  oars  still ;  if  we  can  not  row, 
perhaps  we  can  swim.  Somehow  or  other  we  may 
touch  land. 

But  there  is  one  wreck  in  which  the  sufferers  can 
never  touch  land,  unless  it  be  the  Land  Eternal — I 
mean  the  fate  of  those  who  find  themselves  smitten 
with  incurable  disease  or  doomed  to  hopeless  invalid- 
ism.  It  may  be  exalting  matter  over  mind,  placing  the 
physical  above  the  spiritual,  but  I  think  to  be  impris- 
oned for  life  in  a  miserable  body  which  hampers  and 
paralyzes  the  soul,  is  as  sad  a  lot  as  any  of  the  senti- 
mental sorrows  which  are  here  chronicled.  The  more 
so  as  it  is  such  an  every-day  occurrence  that  it  excites 
little  compassion. 

We  lavish  great  sympathy  upon  sudden,  accidental  ill- 
nesses ;  but  the  chronic  sufferers,  those  who  carry  about 
with  them  some  perpetual  pain,  for  which  there  is  no 
ease  but  death ;  or  even  the  mere  valetudinarians,  who 
"  never  feel  quite  well,"  can  not  do  things  which  other 
people  do,  and  have  continually  to  give  up  things  they 
would  like  to  do,  for  fear  of  being  a  trouble  to  others — 
these  we  get  so  used  to  that  we  often  cease  to  pity 
them,  or  to  consider  what  a  heavy  burden  they  have  to 
bear,  and  how  much  courage  they  need  in  order  to  sus- 
tain it  all. 

For  it  is  such  an  essentially  solitary  burden.  No 
healthy  person  can  understand  even  the  small  misery 


GATHER   TIP   THE   FRAGMENTS.  205 

of  feeling  "  always  tired  ;"  and  when  it  comes  to  worse 
than  this,  when  one  has  to  sit  still  and  gaze  into  long 
years  of  helplessness,  perhaps  acute  pain,  and  though  it 
is  still  noonday,  face  the  certainty  that  no  genial  sun 
will  ever  burst  into  that  dim  twilight — then  life  grows 
very  difficult,  very  dark.  To  most  the  future  is  so  ob- 
scure that  they  can  build  it  up  in  any  fanciful  way 
they  please ;  but  to  these  it  is  like  a  blank  wall  with 
nothing  beyond.  To  sit  down  and  face  it,  knowing 
that  our  small  round  of  interests,  pleasures,  or  labors 
can  never  be  wider  than  now — nay,  will  probably  nar- 
row day  by  day ;  that  we  can  give  no  pleasure  to  any 
body,  and  receive  little  from  any  body ;  that  some- 
how or  other,  we  know  not  why,  God  has  made  us 
separate  from  our  kind  ;  to  invent  a  poor  fragment- 
ary life  for  ourselves,  and  bear  it  by  ourselves,  until 
death  comes  to  untie  the  knot  and  lift  off  the  burden 
— this,  I  think,  is  as  sad  a  fate  as  can  befall  any  hu- 
man being. 

The  only  way  to  meet  it  is  that  which  I  have  already 
counseled  in  other  but  scarcely  sharper  sorrows.  Ac- 
cept it.  Cease  trying  to  get  well,  and  worrying  about 
each  small  symptom  of  being  worse  or  better.  Re- 
member Hezekiah,  who  "  sought  not  the  Lord  but  the 
physicians."  Not  that  I  defend  the  Peculiar  People, 
who  hold  that  prayers  are  to  supersede  mustard  plas- 
ters, and  esteem  anointing  with  oil  a  substitute  for  good 


206  GATHER  UP  THE  FRAGMENTS. 

food  and  wholesome  water.  Still  I  do  think  there  is 
something  in  the  solemn  peace  of  a  soul  that  has  ceased 
to  struggle  with  its  body,  but  takes  cheerfully  the  mod- 
icum of  health  allowed  it,  which  actually  conduces  to 
that  very  health  which  is  resigned. 

When  once  an  invalid  has  strength  to  say,  "  It  does 
not  much  matter ;  at  worst  I  can  but  die,"  sickness  and 
death  itself  lose  their  terrors.  An  old  man,  a  cruel 
sufferer,  once  said  to  me,  "  If  my  pain  is  tolerable,  I 
must  bear  it ;  if  it  is  intolerable,  I  shall  not  have  to  bear 
it  long."  Nor  had  he  ;  and  when,  not  many  days  after, 
I  stood  looking  down  on  the  peaceful  face,  so  grand  in 
its  everlasting  calm,  with  the  wrinkles  all  smoothed  out, 
and  the  irritable  contractions  of  pain  forever  gone,  I 
wished  that  to  the  end  of  my  days  I  might  have  strength 
to  remember  those  words. 

Remember  them  too,  you  whose  life  is  but  the  frag- 
ments of  what  it  might  have  been,  either  in  mind  or 
body — for  the  mind  is  so  strangely  affected  by  the 
body.  Yet  try  to  gather  up  these  fragments  —  they 
may  be  worth  something  still.  Try  to  separate  the 
spiritual  from  the  physical  as  much  as  you  can,  and 
when  you  grow  irritable,  exacting,  prone  to  see  every 
thing  in  an  exaggerated  light,  and  to  think  that  never 
was  any  one  so  afflicted  as  you,  say  to  yourself,  "  It  is 
only  my  body ;  I,  the  real  me,  must  not  let  it  conquer 
me.  This  flesh  is  my  temporary  dungeon,  yet — 


GATHER  UP  THE  FEAGMENT8.  207 

"  'Stone  walls  do  not  a  prison  make, 
Nor  iron  bars  a  cage ' — 

the  c  mind,  innocent  and  quiet,'  may  abide  with  me 
still." 

Aje,  and  so  it  often  is.  Are  not  some  of  the  very 
sweetest  faces  we  know — faces  that  memory  falls  back 
upon  and  recalls  in  the  tumult  of  life  with  a  sense  of 
rest  and  peace — those  of  confirmed  invalids,  who  may 
have  spent  years  of  such  imprisonment,  perhaps  only 
moving  from  bed  to  sofa,  and  back  to  bed ;  well  aware 
that  they  never  will  move  elsewhere  except  to  the  one 
narrow  couch  where  we  all  must  lie,  yet  never  com- 
plaining, never  craving  after  the  outside  world,  which 
circles  noisily  around  their  perpetual  silence ;  exacting 
no  sympathy,  on  the  contrary,  giving  it  to  all  and  any 
who  need. 

"  I  have  no  troubles,"  said,  smiling,  one  of  those  sweet 
saints  whom  most  people  would  have  considered  "  a 
great  martyr."  "  It  is  you  others  who  come  to  me  with 
all  yours." 

So  we  do — we  who  are  still  in  the  thick  of  the  fight — 
to  these,  who  seem  as  if  their  battle  were  done  forever. 
How  often  do  we  find  counsel  and  comfort  by  the  couch 
of  some  dear  woman — it  is  generally  a  woman — whom 
the  world  calls  "  a  terrible  sufferer,"  but  whose  suffer- 
ings are  the  last  thing  she  talks  about.  She  has  let  her- 
self go,  and  is  absorbed  in  the  interests  of  other  people. 


208  GATHEK  UP  THE  FRAGMENTS. 

The  fragments  of  her  life  that  remain  to  her  she  has 
made  so  beautiful  that  you  almost  forget  it  was  ever 
meant  to  be  like  other  lives,  a  perfect  whole ;  that  the 
wasted  frame  before  you  was  ever  a  merry  baby,  a  hap- 
py girl,  a  young  woman  looking  forward  to  woman's  nat- 
ural destiny.  All  that  is  over,  yet  she  is  not  unhappy ; 
nay,  she  is  actually  happy  in  her  own  way;  no  one 
could  look  in  her  face  and  doubt  it.  But  it  is  a  happi- 
ness quite  different  from  and  beyond  ours;  something 
which  naught  earthly  can  either  give  or  take  away. 
•  This  is  a  bright  picture,  which  I  would  fain  place  op- 
posite to  the  dark  pictures  I  have  drawn,  compromis- 
ing nothing  and  denying  nothing ;  yet  saying  after  all, 
"  Take  courage.  God  never  leaves  Himself  without  a 
witness.  In  the  deepest  darkness  is  a  possibility  of 
light." 

For  there  is  that  in  the  human  soul  which  will  not 
die.  Neither  mental  nor  physical  suffering  will  kill 
it  before  its  time.  And  neither  will  extinguish  in  it 
the  germ  of  possible  happiness,  in  this  world  at  least ; 
whether  or  not  in  other  worlds,  God  knows.  But  He 
has  said  enough  to  prove  to  us  two  things,  that  here  on 
earth  sin  is  the  only  absolute  death,  and  "  Deliver  us 
from  evil "  the  only  true  salvation. 

Therefore,  mere  pain,  in  all  forms,  becomes  a  tempo- 
rary and  endurable  thing,  if  we  will  only  try  to  see  it  as 
such,  accustoming  our  eyes  to  behold  the  good  rather 


GATHER  UP  THE  FRAGMENTS.  209 

than  the  bad  ;  choosing  in  our  daily  life  to  eat  the  food 
and  reject  the  poison. 

Easy  enough,  one  would  say,  yet  nobody  does  it. 
People  sit  and  mourn  over  the  fragments  of  their  scat- 
tered joys,  blind  to  the  blessings  they  have,  seeking 
madly  for  blessings  denied.  The  rich  complain  of  their 
responsibilities,  the  poor  of  their  renunciations.  The 
single  think  they  would  have  been  happy  married,  the 
married  reply  warningly,  "  Keep  as  you  are."  Many- 
childed  parents  groan  under  the  burden  of  that  bright 
troop  of  boys  and  girls,  whom  some  empty  household 
longs  enviously  for,  with  an  angry  protest  against  Prov- 
idence, whose  gifts  are  so  unequally  divided.  Nobody 
will  see  his  own  blessings,  or  open  his  heart  to  enjoy 
them,  till  the  golden  hour  has  gone  by  forever,  and  he 
finds  out  too  late  all  that  he  might  have  had  and  might 
have  been. 

A  discovery  made  sometimes  in  an  empty  room  or 
by  a  graveside,  knowing  that  all  the  tears  in  the  world 
will  never  lift  that  stone  or  fill  that  vacant  chair ;  that 
all  our  ceaseless  complainings,  our  angry  fault-findings, 
even  our  real  wrongs,  sink  into  nothing  before  the  re- 
morseless stillness  of  death.  Even  if  life  were  not  the 
absolute  whole  we  expected  it  to  be,  if  our  friends  were 
not  perfect,  nor  ourselves  neither,  why  did  we  fall  into 
despair,  instead  of  quietly  setting  to  work  to  gather 
up  the  fragments  that  remained,  suffering  nothing  to  be 


210  GATHER  UP  THE  FRAGMENTS. 

lost  ?  Now  we  never  can  gather  them  up  any  more. 
The  great  Destroyer  has  passed  by,  and  there  they  lie- 
must  lie — forever. 

Gather  up  the  fragments.  In  every  human  life  there 
are  sure  to  be  some.  Every  one  of  us  has  a  secret 
chamber  somewhere,  filled  with  inhabitants  whom  none 
but  himself  can  see ;  it  rests  with  himself  alone  wheth- 
er they  shall  be  decaying  corpses,  or  only  beautiful 
ghosts. 

"  God  made  me  what  I  am,  and  made  my  lot  what 
He  willed  it  to  be,"  is  a  truth  not  inconsistent  with  the 
other  truth  that  He  gives  us  the  materials  to  work  with, 
but  leaves  the  workmanship  in  our  own  hands.  Every 
man  can  make  or  mar  his  own  life ;  at  any  rate,  it  ap- 
pears so.  The  fact  that  we  know  nothing  of  the  results 
of  our  acts,  makes  them,  as  regards  ourselves,  absolutely 
independent ;  and  the  impossibility  of  gazing  one  inch 
into  the  impenetrable  future  comes  to  the  same  thing 
as  if  we  beheld  it  all. 

"  Lead  Thou  me  on :   I  do  not  ask  to  see 
The  distant  scene :  one  step's  enough  for  me." 

But  that  one  step  must  be  taken  steadily,  firmly,  relig- 
iously. There  must  be  no  looking  back,  no  mourning 
over  the  inexorable  past.  Each  day — such  a  little  day, 
and  every  one  circling  around  so  quietly  that  they  mount 
into  weeks  and  months  and  years  before  we  know  what 


GATHER  UP  THE  FRAGMENTS.  211 

we  have  lost  or  gained ! — each  day  must  be  filled  up, 
minute  by  minute,  with  those  duties  which  are  in  them- 
selves joys,  or  grow  to  be.  If  among  them  ever  rises 
the  spectral  face  of  the  never-forgotten  might-have-been 
— beautiful  in  its  eternal  youth,  perfect  in  its  unattain- 
ed  felicity — why  fear  ?  It  is  but  a  ghost,  and  life  is  a 
reality. 

Aye,  a  useful,  usable,  noble  reality.  Happy,  too,  when 
once  the  grim  idol  Self  has  been  dethroned  forever. 
For  it  is  a  truth  which  we  all  have  to  learn — oftentimes 
through  many  a  bitter  lesson — that  we  never  can  be 
happy  until  we  cease  trying  to  make  ourselves  so. 

I  said  that  this  would  be  a  rather  sad  sermon  to  the 
young ;  but  it  is  not  so  sad  as  it  seems.  There  comes  a 
time — to  some  earlier,  to  others  later — when  faith  has  to 
take  the  place  of  hope,  and  better  even  than  bliss  is  con- 
solation. Surely,  then,  it  is  something  to  know,  on  look- 
ing around  on  those  about  us,  men  and  women,  that  the 
lives  which  seem  the  most  complete — that  is,  have  most 
perfectly  fulfilled  the  end  for  which  they  were  given — 
are  very  seldom  what  we  call  "  fortunate  "  lives.  Few 
have  been  carried  out  exactly  as  they  began,  fewer  still 
have  attained  the  felicity  they  expected.  Some — and 
those  often  the  noblest  and  highest — have  been  sadden- 
ed by  one  or  other  of  those  secret,  silent  tragedies  which 
are  always  happening  around  us,  which  we  all  know, 
or  at  least  guess  at,  but  never  speak  of;  nor  do  they. 


212  GATHER  UP  THE  FRAGMENTS. 

I  once  knew  a  dear  old  lady  —  so  sweet,  so  bright, 
so  clever;  wearing  her  eighty  years  "as  lightly  as  a 
flower."  When  yon  talked  with  her  you  would  have 
thought  her  a  woman  of  thirty,  so  full  was  she  of  all  the 
quick  sympathy  of  youth,  the  wise  tenderness  of  middle 
age.  Of.  the  weaknesses  of  old  age  she  had  absolutely 
none.  Her  interest  in  all  those  about  her  was  such  that 
she  never  seemed  to  think  of  herself  at  all.  No  com- 
plaint, no  murmur  at  her  own  ailments— and  she  had 
ailments,  and  sorrows  too — ever  fell  from  her  lips  ;  her 
only  anxiety  was  about  the  cares  of  other  people,  and 
how  she  could  lighten  them,  in  great  things  and  small. 
Her  bounty  knew  no  limits  except  her  means,  which 
were  not  great ;  "  but,"  she  once  said,  smiling, "  I  need 
so  little ;  and  then  you  see,  my  dear,  I  always  pay  my 
bills  every  week,  so  as  to  give  no  trouble  to  any  body 
afterward."  Thus  she  kept  house,  with  the  utmost  order, 
yet  with  ceaseless  hospitality.  It  was  indeed  the  House 
Beautiful,  to  whose  gates  all  who  came  departed  re- 
freshed and  strengthened,  and  whence  no  creature  who 
came  in  want  or  grief  was  ever  sent  empty  away. 

I  need  not  name  it ;  many  now  living  will  remember 
it ;  and  none  who  were  familiar  there  could  ever  forget 
it,  or  her,  as  she  sat  in  her  quiet  corner,  with  her  sweet 
old  face,  and  her  lovely  little  ringed  hands — peaceful, 
idle  hands;  since  for  some  years  before  she  died  she 
was  nearly  blind.  Yet  her  blindness — though,  coming 


GATHER  UP  THE  FRAGMENTS.          213 

so  late  in  life,  it  made  her  very  helpless — never  made  her 
sad  or  dull ;  she  could  still  listen  to  and  join  in  conver- 
sation, and  she  greatly  liked  society,  especially  that  of 
the  young.  There  was  always  a  tribe  of  young  people 
coming  about  her,  telling  her  all  their  doings  and  plan- 
nings,  their  amusements  and  their  troubles.  She  was 
fond  of  them,  and  they — they  adored  her  !  One  girl  in 
particular  owned  that  the  first  time  this  dear  old  lady 
voluntarily  kissed  her,  she  felt  "as  if  she  had  been 
kissed  by  her  first  love." 

When  she  died — at  over  eighty,  certainly,  but  her  ex- 
ecutors had  to  guess  at  the  date,  for  she  was  an  old 
maid,  without  any  near  relations,  and  had  often  said  she 
did  not  even  know  her  own  age,  it  was  so  long  since  she 
was  born — when  she  died  there  was  found  among  her 
private  papers  a  portrait  of  a  young  man  in  a  foreign 
military  dress.  No  one  could  guess  who  it  was ;  the 
name — there  was  a  name — no  one  had  ever  heard  of. 
At  last  some  old  acquaintance  recalled  a  far-away  tradi- 
tion of  her  having  been  once  about  to  be  married ;  some- 
how the  marriage  was  broken  off,  but  the  two  remained 
friends,  and,  it  was  believed,  corresponded  and  occasion- 
ally met,  till  his  death,  which  happened  when  she  was 
about  fifty  years  old.  For  his  nephew — and  heir,  he  hav-- 
ing  died  unmarried — had  then  been  to  see  her ;  some- 
body recollected  having  met  the  young  man  at  her  house, 
and  her  introducing  him  by  the  name  on  the  miniature. 


214 


GATHER    UP    THE    FRAGMENTS. 


After  that  all  was  silence.  She  was  never  heard  to 
name  the  name  again.  Yet  she  lived  on  for  thirty  more 
years. 

"What  do  you  do  when  you  are  quite  alone?"  was 
once  asked  anxiously  of  her,  when  she  was  too  blind 
either  to  write  or  sew  or  read. 

"  What  do  I  do  ?  My  dear,  I  sit  and  think.  I  have 
so  much  to  think  about — and  so  many." 

"  And  are  you  never  dull  ?" 

"  Dull  ?     Oh,  no !     I  am  quite  happy." 

She  was,  I  am  sure.  You  could  see  it  in  her  face ; 
the  peaceful  happiness  of  a  soul  which  has  ceased  " 
bother  itself  "  about  itself  at  all,  and  is  absorbed  in  kind- 
ly cares  for  other  people.  Her  last  act — the  last  time  she 
ever  crossed  her  threshold — was,  I  remember,  a  visit  of 
kindness,  partly  as  an  excuse  to  take  for  a  drive  a  person 
who  was  too  feeble  to  walk  much.  She  was  then  ex- 
tremely feeble  herself;  and  climbing  a  steep  stair,  one 
who  assisted  her  said  anxiously,  "  I  fear  you  are  very 
tired?" — "Yes,"  she  replied,  "I  am  always  tired  now. 
But,"  turning  suddenly  around  with  the  brightest  of 
smiles,  "  never  mind ;  it  will  be  all  right  soon."  Four 
weeks  after  she  lay  in  her  final  rest,  looking  so  young, 
so  pretty,  so  content,  that  those  who  best  loved  her 
choked  down  their  sobs  and  smiled,  saying,  "  It  was  like 
putting  a  baby  to  sleep." 

This  is  but  one  story  out  of  many  which  I  could  tell, 


GATHER  UP  THE  FRAGMENTS.          215 

even  out  of  my  own  knowledge,  to  prove  that  the  frag- 
ments of  a  broken  life  can  be  so  gathered  up  as  to  make 
a  noble  and  even  a  happy  life  unto  the  end.  Many  a 
time,  as  we  go  on  our  troublous  way  through  the  world, 
are  we  cheered  and  encouraged  by  the  sight  of  such : 
old  men  who  have  done  their  work,  and  for  whom  is 
come  the  time  of  rest — the  "blind-man's  holiday"  be- 
tween the  lights,  when  they  do  nothing,  and  nobody 
expects  them  to  do  any  thing  but  to  look  back  on  the 
fruits  of  their  labor  and  rejoice;  old  women  who  have 
their  children  around  them,  and  grandchildren,  in  whom 
they  take  over  again  all  a  mother's  delight  freed  from  a 
mother's  anxiety.  Lastly — and  these  are  not  the  least 
numerous,  and  perhaps  the  most  touching  of  all — un- 
married women,  whose  lives  must  necessarily  have  been 
incomplete,  barren  of  joy,  or  clouded  with  incurable 
grief ;  yet  one  has  but  to  look  on  their  faces,  sweet  and 
saintly,  to  perceive  that  their  evil  has  brought  forth 
good — that,  whatever  their  own  lot  may  have  been,  to 
others  they  have  proved  a  continual  blessing.  How 
can  those  fail  to  be  blessed,  who  are  every  body's  com- 
fort and  every  body's  help  ? 

Occasionally,  too,  we  meet  persons,  still  in  middle  age, 
for  whom,  it  is  easy  to  see,  the  sun  has  gone  down  at 
noon.  Something  has  happened — we  know  not  what, 
or  perhaps  we  do  know,  but  never  mention  it — some- 
thing which  will  make  their  future  like  that  of  a  tree 


216  GATHER  UP  THE  FRAGMENTS. 

with  its  "  leader  "  broken ;  it  may  not  die,  it  may  grow 
up  green  and  strong,  but  it  will  never  grow  tall,  it  will 
never  be  a  perfect  tree.  With  them,  too,  life  in  its  high- 
est sense  is  over ;  the  play  is  played  out — the  feast  is 
ended ;  there  is  nothing  left  but  to  gather  up  the  frag- 
ments and  endure. 

And  they  are  gathered.  Slowly,  painfully  may  be — 
but  it  is  done.  Nothing  is  lost.  Nothing  remains  to 
cumber,  corrupt,  or  decay.  Every  thing  available  to 
use  still,  is  used — strength,  talents,  energies,  affections ; 
all  that  God  gave  has  been  given  back  to  Him;  not 
perhaps  in  the  way  the  offerer  once  desired  to  give  it, 
but  nevertheless  in  the  right  way,  as  the  final  result 
proves.  And  He  has  accepted  the  sacrifice;  and  re- 
quited it,  too.  Not  perhaps  with  earthly  felicity ;  not 
at  all  with  the  sort  of  felicity  longed  for ;  but  with  some- 
thing better  than  happiness — peace ;  that  peace  which 
one  sees  sometimes  on  very  suffering  faces — it  was  seen 
continually  on  the  dear  old  face  I  have  spoken  of — "  the 
peace  of  God  which  passeth  all  understanding." 

There  is  a  psalm  of  David  —  poor  King  David,  who 
paid  so  dearly  in  sorrow  for  every  sin  he  committed,  yet 
who  had  strength  over  and  over  again  to  gather  up  the 
fragments  of  his  piteous,  errorf ill  life,  and  live  on — aye, 
and  to  die  in  faith,  and  in  hope  of  his  never-builded 
temple ;  there  is  a  psalm,  I  say,  in  which  he  speaks  of 
those  who  "  have  their  portion  in  this  life."  He  never 


GATHER  UP  THE  FRAGMENTS.  217 

blames  them ;  lie  envies  them  not.  Neither  does  lie 
murmur  at  the  will  of  God,  who  sees  fit  to  fill  them  with 
His  "  hid  treasure,"  and  to  give  them  the  Jew's  crown- 
ing blessing, "  children  at  their  desire ;"  that  they  may 
"  leave  the  rest  of  their  substance  to  their  babes." 

But  "as  for  me,"  he  continues,  and  you  can  almost 
hear  the  ringing  of  the  triumphant  harp — "  David's  harp 
of  solemn  sound  " — "  as  for  me,  I  will  behold  Thy  face 
in  righteousness :  I  shall  be  satisfied,  when  I  awake,  with 
Thy  likeness." 

Thoroughly  "  satisfied."  Nothing  lost.  Nothing  scat- 
tered or  wasted.  No  fragments  to  be  gathered  up ;  ev- 
ery thing  perfect  and  complete  in  Him — in  the  fullness 
of  Him  which  filleth  all  in  all. 

May  it  one  day  be  so  with  us,  my  brethren  and  sisters ! 
Amen. 

###*#**# 

These  Sermons  out  of  Church  are  ended. 


THE    END. 


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JOHN  LOTHROP  MOTLEY,  LL.D.,  D.C.L.  With  a  Portrait  of  William  of 
Orange.  3  vols.,  Svo,  Cloth,  $10  50. 

MOTLEY'S  UNITED  NETHERLANDS.  History  of  the  United  Nether- 
lands :  from  the  Death  of  William  the  Silent  to  the  Twelve  Years'  Truce 
—1609.  With  a  full  View  of  the  English-Dutch  Struggle  against  Spain, 
and  of  the  Origin  and  Destruction  of  the  Spanish  Armad'i.  By  JOHN 
LOTHROP  MOTLEY,  LL.D.,  D.C.L.  Portraits.  4  vols.,  Svo,  Cloth,  $14  00. 

NAPOLEON'S  LIFE  OF  CAESAR.  The  History  of  Julius  Csesar.  By  His 
late  Imperial  Majesty  NAPOLEON  III.  Two  Volumes  ready.  Library  Edi- 
tion, Svo,  Cloth,  $3  50  per  vol. 

HAYDN'S  DICTIONARY  OF  DATES,  relating  to  all  Ages  and  Nations. 
For  Universal  Reference.  Edited  by  BENJAMIN  VINCENT,  Assistant  Secre- 
tary and  Keeper  of  the  Library  of  the  Royal  Institution  of  Great  Britain ; 
and  Revised  for  the  Use  of  American  Readers.  Svo,  Cloth,  $5  00 ;  Sheep, 
$600. 

MACGREGOR'S  ROB  ROY  ON  THE  JORDAN.  The  Rob  Roy  on  th« 
Jordan,  Nile,  Red  Sea,  and  Gennesareth,  &c.  A  Canoe  Cruise  in  Pales- 
tine and  Egypt,  and  the  Waters  of  Damascus.  By  J.  MAOGREGOB,  M.A. 
With  Maps  and  Illustrations.  Crown  Svo,  Cloth,  $2  50. 


Harper  &•*  Brothers'  Valuable  and  Interesting  Works.  3 

WALLACE'S  MALAY  ARCHIPELAGO.  The  Malay  Archipelago:  the 
Land  of  the  Orang-UtAri  and  the  Bird  of  Paradise.  A  Narrative  of  Trav- 
el,  1854-1802.  With  Studies  of  Man  and  Nature.  By  ALFRED  RTSKKL 
WAU.AOE.  With  Ten  Maps  and  Fifty-one  Elegant  Illustrations.  Crown 
8vo,  Cloth,  $2  50. 

WHYMPER'S  ALASKA.  Travel  and  Adventure  in  the  Territory  of  Alas- 
ka, formerly  Russian  America— now  Ceded  to  the  United  States— and  in 
various  other  parts  of  the  North  Pacific.  By  FBEI>BRIGK.  WUYMPEB 
With  Map  and  Illustrations.  Crown  Svo,  Cloth,  $'2  50. 

ORTON'S  ANDES  AND  THE  AMAZON.  The  Andes  and  the  Amazon ;  or, 
Across  the  Continent  of  South  America.  By  JAMKS  OUTON,  M.A.,  Pro« 
fessor  of  Natural  History  in  Vass>ar  College,  Poughkeepsie,  N.  Y.,and 
Corresponding  Member  of  the  Academy  of  Natural  Sciences,  Philadel- 
phia. With  a  New  Map  of  Equatorial  America  and  numerous  Illustra- 
tions. Crown  Svo,  Cloth,  $2  00. 

WINCHELL'S  SKETCHES  OF  CREATION.  Sketches  of  Creation:  a 
Popular  View  of  some  of  the  Grand  Conclusions  of  the  Sciences  in  ref« 
erence  to  the  History  of  Matter  and  of  Life.  Together  with  a  Statement 
of  the  Intimations  of  Science  respecting  the  Primordial  Condition  and 
the  Ultimate  Destiny  of  the  Earth  and  the  Solar  System.  By  AI.EXAN- 
DEB  WINOUELL,  LL.D.,  Chancellor  of  the  Syracuse  University.  With 
Illustrations.  12mo,  Cloth,  $2  00. 

WHITE'S  MASSACRE  OF  ST.  BARTHOLOMEW.  The  Massacre  of  St. 
Bartholomew :  Preceded  by  a  History  of  the  Reliirious  Wars  in  the  Reign 
of  Charles  IX.  By  HENRY  WHITE,  M.  A.  With  Illustrations.  Svo,  Cloth, 
$1  75. 

LOSSING'S  FIELD-BOOK  OF  THE  REVOLUTION.  Pictorial  Pield-Book 
of  the  Revolution  ;  or,  Illustrations,  by  Pen  and  Pencil,  of  the  History, 
Biography,  Scenery,  Relic?,  and  Traditions  of  the  War  for  Independ- 
ence. By  BKNSON  J.  LOBSING.  2  vols.,  Svo,  Cloth,  $14  00 ;  Siieep,  $15  00 ; 
Half  Calf,  $18  00;  Full  Turkey  Morocco,  $22  00. 

LOSSING'S  FIELD-BOOK  OF  THE  WAR  OF  1812.  Pictorial  Field-Book 
of  the  War  of  1812;  or,  Illustrations,  by  Pen  and  Pencil,  of  the  History, 
Biography,  Scenery,  Relics,  and  Traditions  of  the  Last  War  for  Ameri- 
can Independence.  By  BKNSON  J.  LOSSINQ.  With  several  hundred  En- 
gravings on  Wood,  by  Lossing  and  Barritt,  chiefly  from  Original  Sketch- 
es by  the  Author.  10S8  pages,  Svo,  Cloth,  $700;  Sheep,  $850;  Half 
Calf,  $10  00. 

ALFORD'S  GREEK  TESTAMENT.  The  Greek  Testament :  with  a  crit- 
ically revised  Text;  a  Digest  of  Various  Readings;  Marginal  References 
to  Verbal  and  Idiomatic  Usage ;  Prolegomena  ;  and  a  Critical  and  Exe- 
getical  Commentary.  For  the  Use  of  Theological  Students  and  Minis- 
ters. By  HKNRY  ALFORP,  D.D.,  Dean  of  Canterbury.  Vol.  I.,  contain- 
ing the  Four  Gospels.  944  pages,  Svo,  Cloth,  $6  00 ;  Sheep,  $6  50. 

ABBOTT'S  FREDERICK  THE  GREAT.  The  History  of  Frederick  the 
Second,  called  Frederick  the  Great.  By  JOHN  S.  C.  ABBOTT.  Elegantiy 
Illustrated.  Svo,  Cloth,  $5  00. 

ABBOTT'S  HISTORY  OF  THE  FRENCH  REVOLUTION.  The  French 
Revolution  of  1789,  as  viewed  in  the  Light  of  Republican  Institutions. 
By  JOHN  S.  C.  ABBOTT.  With  100  Engravings.  Svo,  Cloth,  $5  00. 

ABBOTT'S  NAPOLEON  BONAPARTE.  The  History  of  Napoleon  Bona- 
parte. By  JOHN  S.  C.  ABBOTT.  With  Maps,  Woodcuts,  and  Portraits  on 
Steel.  2  vols.,  Svo,  Cloth,  $10  00. 

ABBOTT'S  NAPOLEON  AT  ST.  HELENA  ;  or,  Interesting  Anecdotes  and 
Remarkable  Conversations  of  the  Emperor  during  the  Five  and  a  Half 
Yr.irs  of  his  Captivity.  Collected  from  the  Memorials  of  Las  Casas, 
O'Meara,  Montholon,  Autommarchi,  and  others.  By  JOHN  S.  C.  ABBOTT. 
With  Illustrations.  Svo,  Cloth,  $5  00. 

ADDISON'S  COMPLETE  WORKS.  The  Works  of  Joseph  Addison,  em- 
bracing the  whole  of  the  "Spectator."  Complete  in  3  vx>ls.,  Svo,  Cloth, 
$6  00. 


4         Harper  &  Brothers'  Valuable  and  Interesting  Works. 

ALCOCK'S  JAPAN.  The  Capital  of  the  Tycoon :  a  Narrative  of  a  Three 
Years'  Residence  in  Japan.  By  Sir  RUTHERFORD  ALCOCK,  K.C.B.,  Her 
Majesty's  Envoy  Extraordinary  and  Minister  Plenipotentiary  in  Japan. 
With  Maps  and  Engravings.  2  vols.,  12mo,  Cloth,  $3  50. 

ALISON'S  HISTORY  OF  EUROPE.  FIRST  SERIES  :  From  the  Commence- 
ment of  the  French  Revolution,  in  1789,  to  the  Restoration  of  the  Bour- 
bons, in  1815.  [In  addition  to  the  Notes  on  Chapter  LXXVL,  which  cor- 
rect the  errors  of  the  original  work  concerning  the  United  States,  a  copi- 
ous Analytical  Index  has  been  appended  to  this  American  Edition.] 
SECOND  SBIUES:  From  the  Fall  of  Napoleon,  in  1815,  to  the  Accession  of 
Louis  Napoleon,  in  1852.  8  vols.,  Svo,  Cloth,  $16  00. 

BARTH'S  NORTH  AND  CENTRAL  AFRICA.  Travels  and  Discoveries  in 
North  and  Central  Africa :  being  a  Journal  of  an  Expedition  undertaken 
under  the  Auspices  of  H.B.M.'s  Government,  in  the  Years  1849-1855.  By 
HENRY  EARTH,  Ph.D.,  D.C.L.  Illustrated.  3  vols.,  Svo,  Cloth,  $12  00. 

HENRY  WARD  BEECHER'S  SERMONS.  Sermons  by  HENRY  WABT> 
BEECIIKR,  Plymouth  Church,  Brooklyn.  Selected  from  Published  and 
Unpublished  Discourses,  and  Revised  by  their  Author.  With  Steel  Por- 
trait. Complete  in  2  vols.,  Svo,  Cloth,  $5  00. 

LYMAN  BEECHER'S  AUTOBIOGRAPHY,  &c.  Autobiography,  Corres- 
pondence, &c.,  of  Lyman  Beecher,  D.D.  Edited  by  his  Son,  CHARLES 
BEEOHER.  With  Three  Steel  Portraits,  and  Engravings  on  Wood.  In  2 
vols.,  12mo,  Cloth,  $5  00. 

BOSWELL'S  JOHNSON.  The  Life  of  Samuel  Johnson,  LL.D.  Including 
a  Journey  to  the  Hebrides.  By  JAMES  BOSWELL,  Esq.  A  New  Edition, 
with  numerous  Additions  and  Notes.  By  JOHN  WILSON  CEOKEB,  LL.D., 
F.R.S.  Portrait  of  Boswell.  2  vols.,  Svo,  Cloth,  $4  00. 

DRAPER'S  CIVIL  WAR.  History  of  the  American  Civil  War.  By  JOHN 
W.  DRAPER,  M.D.,  LL.D.,  Professor  of  Chemistry  and  Physiology  in  the 
University  of  New  York.  In  Three  Vols.  Svo,  Cloth,  $3  50  per  vol. 

DRAPER'S  INTELLECTUAL  DEVELOPMENT  OF  EUROPE.  A  Histo- 
ry of  the  Intellectual  Development  of  Europe.  By  JOHN  W.  DRAPER, 
M.D.,  LL.D.,  Professor  of  Chemistry  and  Physiology  in  the  University 
of  New  York.  Svo,  Cloth,  $5  00. 

DRAPER'S  AMERICAN  CIVIL  POLICY.  Thoughts  on  the  Future  Civil 
Policy  of  America.  By  JOHN  W.  DRAPER,  M.D.,  LL.D.,  Professor  of 
Chemistry  and  Physiology  in  the  University  of  New  York.  Crown  Svo, 
Cloth,  $2  50. 

DU  CHAILLU'S  AFRICA.  Explorations  and  Adventures  in  Equatorial  Af- 
rica, with  Accounts  of  the  Manners  and  Customs  of  the  People,  and  of 
the  Chase  of  the  Gorilla,  the  Crocodile,  Leopard,  Elephant,  Hippopota- 
mus, and  other  Animals.  By  PAUL  B.  Du  CHAILLU.  Numerous  Illus- 
trations. Svo,  Cloth,  $5  00. 

DU  CHAILLU'S  ASHANGO  LAND.  A  Journey  to  Ashango  Land :  and 
Further  Penetration  into  Equatorial  Africa.  By  PAUL  B.  Du  CUAILLU. 
New  Edition.  Handsomely  Illustrated.  Svo,  Cloth,  $5  00. 

BELLOWS'S  OLD  WORLD.  The  Old  World  in  its  New  Face :  Impressions 
of  Europe  in  186T-18G8.  By  HENRY  W.  BELLOWS.  2  vols.,  12mo,  Cloth, 
$3  50* 

BRODHEAD'S  HISTORY  OF  NEW  YORK.  History  of  the  State  of  New 
York.  By  JOHN  ROMEYN  BRODHEAD.  1609-1691.  2  vols.  Svo,  Cloth, 
$3  00  per  vol. 

BROUGHAM'S  AUTOBIOGRAPHY.  Life  and  Times  of  HENRY,  Loai> 
BROUGHAM.  Written  by  Himself.  In  Three  Volumes.  12mo,  Cloth, 
$2  00  per  vol. 

HULWER'S  PROSE  WORKS.  Miscellaneous  Prose  Works  of  Edward  BuU 
wer,  Lord  Lyttou.  2  vols.,  12mo,  Cloth,  $3  50. 


Harper  6°  Brothers'  Valuable  and  Interesting  Works.          5 

BULWER'S  HORACE.  The  Odes  and  Epodes  of  Horace.  A  Metrical 
Translation  into  English.  With  Introduction  and  Commentaries.  67 
LORD  LYTTON.  With  Latin  Text  from  the  Editions  of  Orelli,  Macleanej 
and  Yonge.  12mo,  Cloth,  $1  75. 

BULWER'S  KING  ARTHUR,  A  Poem.  By  LORD  LYTTON.  NewEdttion< 
12mo,  Cloth,  $1  75. 

BURNS'S  LIFE  AND  WORKS.  The  Life  and  Works  of  Robert  Burns. 
Edited  by  ROBERT  CHAMBERS.  4  vols.,  12mo,  Cloth,  $6  00. 

REINDEER,  DOGS,  AND  SNOW-SHOES.  A  Journal  of  Siberian  Travel 
and  Explorations  made  in  the  Years  1S65-'G7.  By  RIOIIABD  J.  BUSH,  late 
of  the  Russo- American  Telegraph  Expedition.  Illustrated.  Crown  8vo, 
Cloth,  $3  00. 

CARLYLE'S  FREDERICK  THE  GREAT.  History  of  Friedrich  II.,  called 
Frederick  the  Great.  By  THOMAS  CABLYLE.  Portraits,  Maps,  Plans, 
&c.  6  vols.,  12mo,  Cloth,  $12  00. 

CARLYLE'S  FRENCH  REVOLUTION.  History  of  the  French  Revolution. 
2  vols.,  12mo,  Cloth,  $3  50. 

CARLYLE'S  OLIVER  CROMWELL.  Letters  and  Speeches  of  Oliver 
Cromwell.  With  Elucidations  and  Connecting  Narrative.  2  vols.,  12ino, 
Cloth,  $3  50. 

CHALMERS'S  POSTHUMOUS  WORKS.  The  Posthumous  Works  of  Dr. 
Chalmers.  Edited  by  his  Son-iu-Law,  Rev.  WILLIAM  HANNA,  LL.D. 
Complete  in  9  vols.,  12mo,  Cloth,  $13  50. 

COLERIDGE'S  COMPLETE  WORKS.  The  Complete  Works  of  Samuel 
Taylor  Coleridge.  With  an  Introductory  Essay  upon  his  Philosophical 
and  Theological  Opinions.  Edited  by  Professor  SUEDD.  Complete  in 
Seven  Vols.  With  a  Portrait.  Small  8vo,  Cloth,  $10  50. 

DOOLITTLE'S  CHINA.  Social  Life  of  the  Chinese :  with  some  Account  of 
their  Religious,  Governmental,  Educational,  and  Business  Customs  and 
Opinions.  With  special  but  not  exclusive  Reference  to  Fuhchau.  By 
Rev.  JUSTUS  DOOLITTLE,  Fourteen  Years  Member  of  the  Fuhchan  Mis- 
sion of  the  American  Board.  Illustrated  with  more  that  150  character- 
istic Engravings  on  Wood.  2  vols.,  12mo,  Cloth,  $5  00. 

GIBBON'S  ROME.  History  of  the  Decline  and  Fall  of  the  Roman  Empire. 
By  EDWARD  GIBBON.  With  Notes  by  Rev.  H.  H.  MILMAN  and  M.  GRIZOT. 
A  new  cheap  Edition.  To  which  is  added  a  complete  Index  of  the  whole 
Work,  and  a  Portrait  of  the  Author.  6  vols.,  12mo,  Cloth,  $9  00. 

HAZEN'S  SCHOOL  AND  ARMY  IN  GERMANY  AND  FRANCE.  The 
School  and  the  Army  in  Germany  and  France,  with  a  Diary  of  Siege 
Life  at  Versailles.  By  Brevet  Major-General  W.  B.  HAZEN,  U.S.A.,  Col- 
onel Sixth  Infantry.  Crown  Svo,  Cloth,  $2  50. 

HARPER'S  NEW  CLASSICAL  LIBRARY.    Literal  Translations. 
The  following  Vols.  are  now  ready.    12mo,  Cloth,  $1  50  each. 
C^SAR.— VIRGIL.—  SALLUST.— HORACE.— CICERO'S  OBATIONS.— CIOKRO'B 

OFFICES,  &o. — CIOEEO  ON  ORATORY  AND  ORATORS. — TACITUS  (2  vols.). 

—TERENCE.— SOPHOCLES.— JUVENAL.— XENOPHON — HOMKR'S  ILIAD.— 

HOMER'S  ODYSSEY.  —  HERODOTUS.  —  DEMOSTHENES.  —  THUCYDIDES.  — 

AESCHYLUS.— EURIPIDES  (2  vols.).— LIVY  (2  vols.). 

DA  VIS'S  CARTHAGE.  Carthage  and  her  Remains :  being  an  Account  of 
the  Excavations  and  Researches  on  the  Site  of  the  Phoenician  Metropo- 
lis in  Africa  and  other  adjacent  Places.  Conducted  under  the  Auspices 
of  Her  Majesty's  Government.  By  Dr.  DAVIS,  F.R.G.S.  Profuse!/  Illus- 
trated with  Maps,  Woodcuts,  Chromo-Lithographs,  &c.  Svo,  Cloth, 


EDGEWORTH'S  (Miss)  NOVELS.     With  Engravings.     10  vols.,   12rao, 
Cloth,  $15  00. 

GROTE'S  HISTORY  OF  GREECE.    12  vols.,  12mo,  Cloth,  $18  00. 


6          Harper  &*  Brothers'  Valuable  and  Interesting  Works. 

HELPS'S  SPANISH  CONQUEST.  The  Spanish  Conquest  in  America,  and 
its  Relation  to  the  History  of  Slavery  and  to  the  Government  of  Colonies. 
By  ARTHUR  HELPS.  4  vols.,  12mo,  Cloth,  $G  00. 

HALE'S  (MRS.)  WOMAN'S  RECORD.  Woman's  Record  ;  or,  Biographical 
Sketches  of  all  Distinguished  Women,  from  the  Creation  to  the  Present 
Time.  Arranged  in  Four  Eras,  with  Selections  from  Female  Writers  of 
Each  Era.  By  Mrs.  SARAH  JOSEPUA  HALE.  Illustrated  with  more  than 
200  Portraits.  8vo,  Cloth,  $5  00. 

HALL'S  ARCTIC  RESEARCHES.  Arctic  Researches  and  Life  among  the 
Esquimaux :  being  the  Narrative  of  an  Expedition  in  Search  of  Sir  John 
Franklin,  in  the  Years  1800, 1801,  and  1862.  By  CHAKLBS  FRANCIS  HALL. 
With  Maps  and  100  Illustrations.  The  Illustrations  are  from  the  Origi- 
nal Drawings  by  Charles  Parsons,  Henry  L.  Stephens,  Solomon  Eytinge, 
W.  S.  L.  Jewett,  and  Grauville  Perkins,  after  Sketches  by  Captain  Hall. 
Svo,  Cloth,  $5  00. 

HALLAM'S  CONSTITUTIONAL  HISTORY  OF  ENGLAND,  from  the  Ac- 
cession of  Henry  VII.  to  the  Death  of  George  II.  Svo,  Cloth,  $2  00. 

HALLAM'S  LITERATURE.  Introduction  to  the  Literature  of  Europe  dur- 
ing the  Fifteenth,  Sixteenth,  and  Seventeenth  Centuries.  By  HENRY 
HALLAM.  2  vols.,  Svo,  Cloth,  $4  00. 

HALLAM'S  MIDDLE  AGES.  State  of  Europe  during  the  Middle  Ages. 
By  HENRY  HALLAM.  Svo,  Cloth,  $2  00. 

HILDRETH'S  HISTORY  OF  THE  UNITED  STATES.  FIRST  SERIES: 
From  the  First  Settlement  of  the  Country  to  the  Adoption  of  the  Federal 
Constitution.  SECOND  SERIKS  :  From  the  Adoption  of  the  Federal  Con- 
stitution to  the  End  of  the  Sixteenth  Congress.  6  vols.,  Svo,  Cloth, 
$18  00. 

HUME'S  HISTORY  OF  ENGLAND.  History  of  England,  from  the  Inva- 
sion of  Julius  Caesar  to  the  Abdication  of  James  II.,  1688.  By  DAVID 
HUME.  A  new  Edition,  with  the  Author's  last  Corrections  and  improve* 
ments.  To  which  is  Prefixed  a  short  Account  of  his  Life,  written  by 
Himself.  With  a  Portrait  of  the  Author.  6  vols.,  12mo,  Cloth,  $9  00. 

JAY'S  WORKS.  Complete  Works  of  Rev.  William  Jay :  comprising  his 
Sermons,  Family  Discourses,  Morning  and  Evening  Exercises  for  every 
Day  in  the  Year,  Family  Prayers,  &c.  Author's  enlarged  Edition,  re- 
vised. 3  vols.,  Svo,  Cloth,  $6  00. 

JEFFERSON'S  DOMESTIC  LIFE.  The  Domestic  Life  of  Thomas  Jeffer- 
son: compiled  from  Family  Letters  and  Reminiscences,  by  his  Great- 
Granddaughter,  SARAU  N.  RANDOLPH.  With  Illustrations.  Crown  Svo, 
Illuminated  Cloth,  Beveled  Edges,  $2  50. 

JOHNSON'S  COMPLETE  WORKS.  The  Works  of  Samuel  Johnson,  LL.D. 
With  an  Essay  on  his  Life  and  Genius,  by  ARTHUR  MURPHY,  Esq.  Por- 
trait of  Johnson.  2  vols.,  Svo,  Cloth,  $4  00. 

KINGLAKE'S  CRIMEAN  WAR.  The  Invasion  of  the  Crimea,  and  an  Ac- 
count of  its  Progress  down  to  the  Death  of  Lord  Raglan.  By  ALEXAN- 
DER WILLIAM  KINGLAKE.  With  Maps  and  Plans.  Two  Vols.  ready. 
12mo,  Cloth,  $2  00  per  vol. 

KINGSLEY'S  WEST  INDIES.  At  Last :  A  Christmas  in  the  West  Indies. 
By  CHARLES  KINGSLEY.  Illustrated.  12mo,  Cloth,  $1  50. 

KRUMMACHER'S  DAVID,  KING  OF  ISRAEL.  David,  the  King  of  Isra- 
el :  a  Portrait  drawn  from  Bible  History  and  the  Book  of  Psalms.  By 
FREDERICK  WILLIAM  KRUMMACIUER,  D.D.,  Author  of  "Elijah  the  Tish- 
bite,"  &c.  Translated  under  the  express  Sanction  of  the  Author  by  the 
Rev.  M.  G.  EASTON,  M.A.  With  a  Letter  from  Dr.  Krnmmacher  to  his 
American  Readers,  and  a  Portrait.  12mo,  Cloth,  $1  75. 

LAMB'S  COMPLETE  WORKS.  The  Works  of  Charles  Lamb.  Compris- 
ing his  Letters,  Poems,  Essays  of  Elia,  Essays  upon  Shakspeare,  Ho- 
garth, &c.,  and  a  Sketch  of  his  Life,  with  the  Final  Memorials,  by  T.  Noon 
TALI-OUBD.  Portrait.  2  vols.,  12mo,  Cloth,  $3  00. 


Harper  <5r»  Brothers'  Valuable  and  Interesting  Works.          7 

LIVINGSTONE'S  SOUTH  AFRICA.  Missionary  Travels  and  Researches 
in  South  Africa;  including  a  Sketch  of  Sixteen  Years'  Residence  in  the 
Interior  of  Africa,  and  a  Journey  from  the  Cape  of  Good  Hope  to  Loan- 
do  on  the  West  Coast;  thence  across  the  Continent,  down  the  River 
Zambesi,  to  the  Eastern  Ocean.  By  DAVID  LIVINGSTONE,  LL.D.,  D.C.L. 
With  Portrait,  Maps  by  Arrowsmith,  aud  numerous  Illustrations.  Svo, 
Cloth,  $450. 

LIVINGSTONES'  ZAMBESI.  Narrative  of  an  Expedition  to  the  Zambesi 
aud  its  Tributaries,  and  of  the  Discovery  of  the  Lakes  Shirwa  and  Ny- 
assa,  185S-1S64.  By  DAVID  aud  CIIARLKS  LIVINGSTONE.  With  Map  and 
Illustrations.  8vo,  Cloth,  $5  00. 

M'CLINTOCK  &  STRONG'S  CYCLOPAEDIA.  Cyclopaedia  of  Biblical, 
Theological,  and  Ecclesiastical  Literature.  Prepared  by  the  Rev.  Jonx 
M'CLINTOCK,  D.D.,  and  JAMES  STRONG,  S.T.D.  5  vols.  now  read;/.  Royal 
8vo,  Price  per  vol.,  Cloth,  $5  00;  Sheep,  $6  00;  Half  Morocco,  $8  00. 

MARCY'S  ARMY  LIFE  ON  THE  BORDER.  Thirty  Years  of  Army  Life 
on  the  Border.  Comprising  descriptions  of  the  Indian  Nomads  of  the 
Plains  ;  Explorations  of  New  Territory ;  a  Trip  across  the  Rocky  Mount- 
ains in  the  Winter;  Descriptions  of  the  Habits  of  Different  Animals 
found  in  the  West,  and  the  Methods  of  Hunting  them ;  with  Incidents 
in  the  Life  of  Diflerent  Frontier  Men,  &c  ,  &c.  By  Brevet  Brigadier- 
General  R.  B.  MAUOY,  U.S.A.,  Author  of  "The  Prairie  Traveller."  WTith 
numerous  Illustrations.  8vo,  Cloth,  Beveled  Edges,  $3  00. 

MACAULAY'S  HISTORY  OF  ENGLAND.  The  History  of  England  from 
the  Accession  of  James  II.  By  TIIOMAS  BAUINGTON  MAOAULAY.  With 
au  Original  Portrait  of  the  Author.  5  vols.,  8vo,  Cloth,  $10  00;  12mo, 
Cloth,  $7  50. 

MOSHEIM'S  ECCLESIASTICAL  HISTORY,  Ancient  and  Modern;  in 
which  the  Rise,  Progress,  and  Variation  of  Church  Power  are  considered 
in  their  Connection  with  the  State  of  Learning  and  Philosophy,  and  the 
Political  History  of  Europe  during  that  Period.  Translated,  with  Notes, 
&c.,  by  A.  MACLAINE,  D.D.  A  new  Edition,  continued  to  1826,  by  C. 
COOTK,  LL.D.  2  vols.,  Svo,  Cloth,  $4  00. 

THE  DESERT  OF  THE  EXODUS.  Journeys  on  Foot  in  the  Wilderness 
of  the  Forty  Years'  VVauderings;  undertaken  in  connection  with  the 
Ordnance  Survey  of  Sinai  and  the  Palestine  Exploration  Fund.  By  E. 
H.  PALMER,  M.A.,  Lord  Almoner's  Professor  of  Arabic,  aud  Fellow  of 
St.  John's  College,  Cambridge.  With  Maps  and  numerous  Illustrations 
from  Photographs  and  Drawings  taken  on  the  spot  by  the  Sinai  Survey 
Expedition  and  C.  F.  Tyrwhitt  Drake.  Crown  svo,  Cloth,  $3  00. 

OLIPHANT'S  CHINA  AND  JAPAN.  Narrative  of  the  Earl  of  Elgin's  Mis- 
sion to  China  and  Japan,  in  the  Years  185T,  '58,  '59.  By  LAURENCE  OLI- 
PHANT,  Private  Secretary  to  Lord  Elgin.  Illustrations.  8vo,  Cloth,  $3  50. 

OLIPHANT'S  (Mns.)  LIFE  OF  EDWARD  IRVING.  The  Life  of  Edward 
Irving,  Minister  of  the  National  Scotch  Church,  London.  Illustrated  by 
his  Journals  and  Correspondence.  By  Mrs.  OLIPHANT.  Portrait.  Svo, 
Cloth,  $3  50. 

RAWLINSON'S  MANUAL  OF  ANCIENT  HISTORY.  A  Manual  of  An- 
cient History,  from  the  Earliest  Times  to  the  Fall  of  the  Western  Empire. 
Comprising  the  History  of  Chaldsea,  Assyria,  Media,  Babylonia,  Lydia, 
Phoenicia,  Syria,  Judaea,  Egypt,  Carthage,  Persia,  Greece,  Macedonia, 
Parthia,  and  Rome.  By  GKORGE  RAWI.INSON,  M.A.,  Camden  Professoy 
of  Ancient  History  in  the  University  of  Oxford.  12mo,  Cloth,  $2  50. 

RECLUS'S  THE  EARTH.  The  Earth:  A  Descriptive  History  of  the  Phe- 
nomena and  Life  of  the  Globe.  By  ELIS£E  RKCI.US.  Translated  by  the 
late  B.  B.  Woodward,  and  Edited  by  Henry  Woodward.  With  234  Map« 
and  Illustrations  and  23  Page  Maps  printed  in  Colors.  Svo,  Cloth,  $5  09. 

RECLUS'S  OCEAN.  The  Ocean,  Atmosphere,  and  Life.  Being  the  Second 
Series  of  a  Descriptive  History  of  the  Life  of  the  Globe.  By  E"usrfK  RK- 
CLCB.  Profusely  Illustrated  with  250  Maps  or  Figures,  and  27  Mapa 
printed  in  Colors.  Svo,  Cloth,  $G  00- 


8          Harper  <5r»  Brothers'  Valuable  and  Interesting  Works. 

SHAKSPEARE.  The  Dramatic  Works  of  William  Shakspeare,  with  the 
Corrections  and  Illustrations  of  Dr.  JOHNSON,  G.  STKVKNS,  and  others. 
Revised  by  ISAAC  REEI>.  Engravings.  6  vols,  Royal  12mo,  Cloth,  $9  00. 
2  vols.,  Svo,  Cloth,  $4  00. 

SMILES'S  LIFE  OP  THE  STEPHENSONS.  The  Life  of  George  Stephen- 
son,  and  of  his  Sou,  Robert  Stephenson ;  comprising,  also,  a  History  of 
the  Invention  and  Introduction  of  the  Railway  Locomotive.  By  SAMUEL 
SMILES,  Author  of  "  Self-Help,"  &c.  With  Steel  Portraits  and  numerous 
Illustrations.  Svo,  Cloth,  $3  00. 

SMILES'S  HISTORY  OF  THE  HUGUENOTS.  The  Huguenots:  their  Set- 
tlements, Churches,  and  Industries  in  England  and  Ireland.  By  SAMUEL 
SMILES.  With  an  Appendix  relating  to  the  Huguenots  in  America. 
Crown  Svo,  Cloth,  $1  75. 

SPEKE'S  AFRICA.  Journal  of  the  Discovery  of  the  Source  of  the  Nile. 
By  Captain  JOIIN  BANNING  SPKKE,  Captain  H.M.  Indian  Army,  Fellow 
and  Gold  Medalist  of  the  Royal  Geographical  Society,  Hon.  Correspond- 
ing Member  and  Gold  Medalist  of  the  French  Geographical  Society,  &c. 
With  Maps  and  Portraits  and  numerous  Illustrations,  chiefly  from  Draw- 
ings by  Captain  GRANT.  Svo,  Cloth,  uniform  with  Livingstone,  Earth, 
Burton,  &c.,  $4  00. 

STRICKLAND'S  (Miss)  QUEENS  OF  SCOTLAND.  Lives  of  the  Queens  of 
Scotland  and  English  Princesses  connected  with  the  Regal  Succession 
of  Great  Britain.  Py  AGNKS  STBIOK.LAND.  8  vols.,  12mo,  Cloth,  $12  00. 

THE  STUDENT'S  SERIES. 

France.    Engravings.    12mo,  Cloth,  $2  00. 

Gibbon.    Engravings.    12mo,  Cloth,  $2  00. 

Greece.    Engravings.    12mo,  Cloth,  $2  00. 

Hume.    Engravings.     12mo,  Cloth,  $2  00. 

Rome.    By  Liddell.     Engravings.    12mo,  Cloth,  $2  00. 

Old  Testament  History.    Engravings.    12mo,  Cloth,  $2  00. 

New  Testament  History.     Engravings,  12mo,  Cloth,  $2  00. 

Strickland  s  Queens  of  England.    Abridged.   Eug's.    12mo,  Cloth,  $2  00. 

Ancient  History  of  the  East.  12mo,  Cloth,  $2  00. 

Hallam's  Middle  Ages.     12mo,  Cloth,  $2  00. 

Hallam's  Constitutional  History  of  England.    12mo,  Cloth,  $2  00. 

Lyell's  Elements  of  Geology.    12mo,  Cloth,  $2  00. 

TENNYSON'S  COMPLETE  POEMS.  The  Complete  Poems  of  Alfred  Ten- 
nyson, Poet  Laureate.  With  numerous  Illustrations  by  Eminent  Artists, 
and  Three  Characteristic  Portraits.  Svo,  Paper,  75  cents ;  Cloth,  $1  25. 

THOMSON'S  LAND  AND  THE  BOOK.  The  Land  and  the  Book;  or,  Bib- 
lical Illustrations  drawn  from  the  Manners  and  Customs,  the  Scenes 
and  the  Scenery  of  the  Holy  Land.  By  W.  M.  THOMSON,  D.D.,  Twenty- 
five  Years  a  Missionary  of  the  A.B.C.F.M.  in  Syria  and  Palestine.  With 
two  elaborate  Maps  of  Palestine,  an  accurate  Plan  of  Jerusalem,  and 
several  hundred  Engravings,  representing  the  Scenery,  Topography,  and 
Productions  of  the  Holy  Land,  and  the  Costumes,  Manners,  and  Habits 
of  the  People.  2  large  12mo  vols.,  Cloth,  $5  00. 

TYERMAN'S  WESLEY.  The  Life  and  Times  of  the  Rev.  John  Wesley, 
M.A.,  Founder  of  the  Methodists.  By  the  Rev.  LUKE  TVEEMAN.  Por- 
traits. 3  vols.,  Crown  Svo,  Cloth,  $7  50. 

TYERMAN'S  OXFORD  METHODISTS.  The  Oxford  Methodists :  Memoirs 
of  the  Rev.  Messrs.  Clayton,  Ingham,  Gambold,  Hervey,  and  Broughton, 
with  Biographical  Notices  of  others.  By  the  Rev.  L.  TYEUMAN.  With 
Portraits.  Crown  Svo,  Cloth,  $2  50. 

VA"MBERY'S  CENTRAL  ASIA.  Travels  in  Central  Asia.  "Being  the  Ac- 
count of  a  Journey  from  Teheren  across  the  Turkoman  Desert,  on  the 
Eastern  Shore  of  the  Caspian,  to  Khiva,  Bokhara,  and  Samarcand,  per- 
formed in  the  Year  1863.  By  ARMINIUS  VAMuiuy,  Member  of  the  Hun- 
garian Academy  of  Pesth,  by  whom  he  was  sent  on  this  Scientific  Mis- 
sion. With  Map  and  Woodcuts.  Svo,  Cloth,  $4  50. 

WOOD'S  HOMES  WITHOUT  HANDS.  Homes  Without  Hands :  being  a 
Description  of  the  Habitations  of  Animals,  classed  according  to  their 
Principle  of  Construction.  By  J.  G.  WOOD,  M.A.,  F.L.S.  With  about 
140  Illustrations.  Svo,  Cloth,  Beveled  Edges,  $4  50. 


Harper's  Catalogue. 


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